
- n 



6 : 










6* 



I 



DISCOURSES, 

ON 

VARIOUS SUBJECTS 



BY 



. / 

E . H . C H A P I N . 



THIRD EDITIOX. 



BOSTON: 
ABEL TOMPKINS, 3S CORNHTLL. 
1S5S. 




Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1841 

By ABEL TOMPKINS, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Distrio 
of Massachusetts. 



S M tEvUOTYPED FY 

GEO. A. & J. CUftTIS, 

NEW-ENGLAND TYPE AND STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY. 



THE INDEPENDENT CHRISTIAN SOCIETY, 
RICHMOND, VA,, 

AND TO 

THE FIRST UNIVERSALIST SOCIETY, 

CHARLESTON N, MASS., 

These Discourses are affectionately 
DEDICATED, 

BY THEIR FRIEND AND BROTHER, 

TTF AUTHOR. 



PREFACE. 



The great end of preaching is to reform the life — to 
reconcile men to duty and to God. In order to accom- 
plish this the most effectually, it is granted that men 
should have correct views of the doctrines of Christianity 
— that they should understand the true motives and 
objects of religion. But when the preacher has presented 
his best ideas of these — when he has thoroughly con- 
vinced the reason ; he has only just entered upon his 
work -j he has only removed the barriers to its successful 
issue. In that great field the human heart; lies his chief 
labor. 

The circumstances of the denomination of Christians 
with which the author is connected, have required, and 
in many places still do require, a detailed and frequent 
exhibition of their views of the doctrines of our religion, 
Hence its preachers have very generally occupied an 
antagonist attitude, and most of its publications present 
a controversial tone. This, we repeat, circumstances 
haye and still do require. But if we have not neglected, 
we cannot too zealously act upon the truth stated above 
— that the heart must be cultivated as well as the intel- 
lect — that practical reLigion should be aimed at as the 
true life and conservation of the members of our com- 
munion — of all sects— of the world. The great principle 
to be propagated and established in the souls of all men, 
is not this or that particular " ism" but the spirit of Christ. 
Without this, no denomination can be right-— no society 

can nourish — no soul can truly live. 
1# 



Vi 



PREFACE « 



Acting upon this idea, the writer respectfully presents 
to the public the following Discourses, chiefly of a practi- 
cal character. While he loves to unfold and exhibit those 
great truths which may be a bond of union for all denom- 
inations of Christians, he has made no effort to conceal 
his opinions, or to go between the discordant tenets of 
the sects. Neither has he travelled out of his course, in 
order to thrust prominently forward his peculiar views. 
However feeble his labors, he would be limited within 
no set bounds— but search for truth wherever it may 
lie. However devoted to a particular denomination, he 
would speak to the great heart of humanny, for he trusts 
that his own pulses sympathize with it— he would speak 
for God ; for the preacher is God's servant, not man's— 
and he should never suffer any man or class of men to 
put a seal upon his lips. He is not particularly anxious, 
therefore, whether those who shall read this little volume 
are dissatisfied because he has presented so much of his 
peculiar opinions — or because he has set them forth so 
meagrely. If the principles he has laid down are good— 
if souls are made better by them— if Christ's kingdom is 
strengthened and God's glory enhanced, this will be a 
reward for his humble labors that human censure cannot 
deprive him of, or human praise bestow. 

These Discourses, then, are chiefly practical. The 
author does not look for a wide circulation of them out of 
the denomination with which he is connected. He trusts, 
however, that wherever they go they may do good. 
Their literary merits he leaves to those who may deem it 
worth while to undertake the task of criticism. 

Invoking upon these, and all his labors, the blessing 
of God, and his accompanying grace, he commits this 
volume to the public 

Charlestown, Mass., April, 1841. 



DISCOURSES, 



DISCOURSE L 

HUMILITY AND HOPE, 

1 Cor. xiii. 12. — For now we see through, a glass darkly* 

Two principles it is commendable for man to 
cherish— Humility and Hope. These, operating 
together, should chasten and guide each other, so 
that the former will not sink our opinion of our- 
selves or our fellows too low, so that the latter 
will not intoxicate us with unbecoming pride, or 
dazzle and blind us to the obstacles that lie in our 
way. To excite a due improvement of the qual- 
ity of humility, not unmingled with the throb- 
bings and aspirations of hope, should be the fre- 
quent and earnest aim of the teacher of his fellow- 
men. The complex character of human nature 
« — the proposition that it is composed of mingled 
good and evil— we deem an axiom of strict, 
philosophical soundness. We are not wholly 
lost and hopeless, we have powers of vision, we 



8 



DISCOURSES* 



do perceive objects and feel their beauty,* although 
" we see through a glass darkly." We cannot 
look upon human nature in a position so degraded 
and melancholy, as to believe that it is removed 
from all good — that it has no light, no excel- 
lence. There are deep emotions in our own 
hearts— there are beautiful manifestations that 
break out here and there — that evince that man 
is not wholly lost, that his imperfections are not 
so absorbing and vital as to make out a total de- 
rangement of his moral system, a radical aver- 
sion to and incapacity for good. There are bright 
gleamings, there are sweet voices, there are elo- 
quent appeals, gushing forth from nature and 
from Revelation, that speak not to stones and tor- 
pid matter, and things that hear not and heed not 
—but that address a conscious and willing sym* 
pathy in the hearts of men. 

Neither, on the other hand, are we perfect. 
Sin is upon us and interwoven with our life. Our 
faculties are blended with our propensities, our 
lofty aspirations with low and grovelling desires, 
our truth with error, our light with darkness. 
How many of the best, the farthest onward in the 
path of righteousness — nay, those who have 
seemed to catch already the ardent breathings of 
the seraphim, and the power of celestial insight 
upon spiritual things ; how many like these have 



HUMILITY AND HOPE. 



9 



felt with the great apostle — " I see another law 
in my members warring against the law of my 
mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law 
of sin which is m my members. wretched 
man that I am ! who shall deliver me from the 
body of this death ? " How many by humiliat- 
ing experience can bear testimony to the errors, 
the imperfections, the sins that throng around and 
entangle us, that weave themselves into the very 
meshes of our souls ! — " For now we see through 
a glass darkly." 

This idea of the condition of man, then, it 
appears to us, should be constantly kept in view. 
The doctrine of total depravity on the one hand, 
and of human perfection on the other, afford but 
little if any incentive to moral action. It is where 
there is evil to be eradicated and good to be se- 
cured, and where there is a capacity to this end, 
that hope exists, that humility operates. 

With this view, I would make the text the 
foundation of the remarks that may follow. I 
would feel, and I would have it felt, that I am 
'speaking to those who have cause both to be 
humble and to hope in their present condition — 
who are children of human nature, of the earth, 
earthy ; and yet, who were made a little lower 
than the angels, into whose nostrils God breathed 
the breath of life until they became living souls 
and to whom the Gospel has been given, 



10 



DISCOURSES. 



I. " For now we see through a glass darkly." 
How limited, in fact, is human knowledge, how 
narrow its range, how' quickly we, arrive at its 
bounds. Newton, as his mighty intellect mount- 
ed above the common wisdom of men and went 
out and stood humbled and awed by the vastness 
of the field that lay before him, and confounded 
by the truths that burst in their magnificent and 
awful splendor upon his vision, felt " that he was 
gathering pebbles on the shore of an infinite 
ocean." And it is ever so with those whose 
minds are the most expanded by thought and 
filled with the treasures of wisdom. It is the nar- 
row, or at least the inexperienced intellect, that 
feels as if it knew all — as if there were not one 
key-note in this vast organ of the universe but 
its ear has heard it — not one shred of gold in all 
this complicate and woven fabric of things but its 
eye has seen it — not one idea, one plan, in the 
great economy of the whole but it has entered 
into its heart to conceive it. 

We sit us down to study awhile. We gather 
around us books and parchments. We brush 
away the rubbish from the fountains of antiquity. 
We wait until " the marble lips" of the past, 

" Fit organs of eternity,' 5 
shall move and speak. We reason and specu- 



HUMILITY AND HOPE. 



11 



late, we dream and make theories, we read and 
reflect — and then, say we, " our education is com- 
pleted." But the first step we take into this open 
field of nature, the fossil in its crumbling bed, the 
atom, the spark, reveals our ignorance and re- 
bukes our vanity. " We reason from what we 
know " — but ah ! what do we know ? When we 
have taken that fragment of inanimate block, or 
earth, or stone, and analyzed its compounds and 
talked of its properties, what have we learned ? 
" Here," we say, " are its elements." — but what 
are the elements of these elements ? How came 
they into such curious juxtaposition, and in such 
a shape ? How did they grow all secretly and 
still, without a voice, without a rational life, into 
such or such a matter ? You talk of its elements, 
you speak of its properties, and yet can you make 
one atom like it ? Do you know the materials 
and the processes of its birth ? Do you know all 
the part it plays — the precise connection it has 
with the universal whole ? Why should the car- 
bon in its hidden laboratory produce both the 
coarse fuel and the precious gem — the charcoal B 
and the diamond ? Why should the tiny bar of 
steel, in the darkest night, upon the wildest sea, 
when the heavens are black above and the waves 
are mad beneath, still tremblingly point to the 
north ? Whence come the meteor shapes that 



12 



DISCOURSES. 



shoot in flickering, ever-varying beauty, and 
weave and shimmer across the polar sky ? What 
mystery is there among the stars, that they go 
away from us for a season, and come again, in 
their time, with their bright visitings ? What are 
the bands of Orion ? Where is the lost Pleiad ? 
Can you tell, moreover, all the phenomena of this 
curious thought^ that flies swifter than electric 
flashes to the bounds of the universe ? — that 
quivers in the countenance of the little child, 
and yet moves him to wait for manifestations of 
God — that gushes out in love and tenderness, 
from the well-springs of a mother's heart, and 
yet nerves the martyr to hold his hand unblench- 

* ingly in the flame ? Have you scanned all the 
elements of mind ? Do you know all the modes 
of its existence — the connections that it has with 
other beings — the nature of all the destinies it 
shall accomplish ? No ! — you know none of these 
things. And yet, your wisdom would make a the- 
ory so solid, so compact, so dogmatic, that not 
another idea shall find place there — not a jot 

• shall be moved, not a tittle reversed. You speak 
as if you knew all — you decide as if demonstra- 
tion, were written on all existences and your eyes 
had seen them — when, in truth, your vision is 
limited, (oh ! how small ;) you stand upon a lit- 
tle fragment of the universe, and " see through a 



HUMILITY AND HOPE, 



13 



glass darkly." " System of nature ! " says a quaint 
though eloquent writer ; 4> to the wisest, wide as 
is his vision, nature remains of quite infinite 
depth, of quite infinite expansion ; and all expe- 
rience thereof limits itself to some few computed 

centuries and measured square miles 

To the minnow every cranny and pebble, and 
quality and accident of his little native creek, may 
have become familiar ; but does the minnow un- 
derstand the ocean-tides and periodic currents, the 
trade-winds, and monsoons, and moon's eclipses ; 
by all which the condition of its little creek is 
regulated, and may from time to time, (?^miracu- 
lously enough,) be quite overset and reversed ? 
Such a minnow is man ; his creek, this planet 
earth ; his ocean, the immeasurable All ; his mon- 
soons and currents, the mysterious course of Pro- 
vidence through ^Eons of -.Eons." 

And how with a voice of authority speaks the 
sublime language of Inspiration, showing man 
the narrowness of his wisdom and rebuking his 
arrogant pride of intellect. " Where wast thou 
when I laid the foundations of the earth ? declare, 
if thou hast understanding. Who hath laid the 
measures thereof, if thou knowest ? or who hath 
stretched the line upon it ? Whereupon are the 
foundations thereof fastened? or who laid the cor- 
ner-stone thereof : When the morning-stars sang 
2 



14. 



DISCOURSES. 



together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy ? 
Hast thou entered into the springs of the sea? 
or hast thou walked in the search of the depth ? 
Have the gates of death been opened unto thee ? 
or hast thou seen the doors of the shadow of 
death ? Hast thou perceived the breadth of the 
earth ? declare, if thou knowest it all. Where is 
the way where light dwelleth ? and as for dark- 
ness, where is the place thereof, That thou should- 
est take it to the bound thereof, and that thou 
shouldest know the paths to the house thereof ? 
Knowest thou it, because thou wast then born ? or 
because the number of thy days is great ? Hast 
thou entered into the treasures of the snow, or 
hast thou seen the treasures of the hail, Which I 
have reserved against the time of trouble, against 
the day of battle and war ? By what way is the 
light parted, which scattereth the east wind upon 
the earth ? Who hath divided a water-course for 
the overflowing of waters ; or a way for the light- 
ning of thunder ; To cause it to rain on the earth, 
where no rain is ; on the wilderness, wherein there 
is no man : To satisfy the desolate and waste 
ground ; and to cause the bud of the tender herb 
to spring forth ? Canst thou bind the sweet in- 
fluences of Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion ? 
Canst thou bring forth Mazzaroth in his season ? 
or canst thou guide Arcturus with his sons 2 



HUMILITY AND HOPE. 



Id 



Knowest thou the ordinances of heaven ? canst 
thou set the dominion thereof in the earth ? Canst 
thou lift up thy voice to the clouds, that abun- 
dance of waters may cover thee ? Canst thou 
send lightnings, that they may go, and say unto 
thee, Here we are ?" 

My hearers, a little thought, a little circum- 
spection, teaches us how limited and imperfect is 
our knowledge, whether it relate to intellectual 
or to spiritual matters. There is weakness to 
overcome us, there are errors to darken, there is 
the veil of the material, the temporal and the 
seen, to shut out the spiritual, the immortal and 
the invisible. " For now we see through a glass 
darkly." 

Do not apprehend me as underrating the capa- 
cities of human nature — as making them feeble 
and of little moment. I have been speaking com- 
paratively. I have placed that which man does 
know in contrast with that which he does not, 
and it is only then that these capacities appear 
small and weak. Viewed abstractly — viewed in 
relation to itself from age to age — as progressing 
from infancy to manhood, from benighted centu- 
ries to an era of light and excellence and pow- 
er ; mind is a mighty, a glorious principle. And 
glorious, too, is the sphere in which it has been 
placed, and the things of which it may take 



16 



DISCOURSES. 



cognizance. Yes, glorious is this vast theatre in 
which we stand and read lessons of unfailing 
wisdom, written over all the heavens in letters 
of light, emblazoned on the mountain summits, 
stamped on the green earth, and thrown athwart 
the everlasting sea. Full, full to overflowing is 
this beautiful world with instruction. Its very 
clouds are almost the magnificent curtains of 
seraphim, and out from the infinite depths above 
and around it there gushes perpetually celestial 
music. And all this is for the human soul — of 
all this may it take cognizance — of all this it has 
learned ; and therefore, we say, mighty and glo- 
rious is it. But let not man become arrogant in 
his wisdom ; let him not talk of " the sure laws of 
nature," and " the revealed mysteries of things," 
and upon these frame dogmas and theories and 
philosophies, when he sees as he looks abroad, 
when he feels as he advances in knowledge, that 
he is backward, and ignorant, and limited. Let 
him, in brief, learn Humility ; — " For now we see 
through a glass darkly." 

And yet, my hearers, with this humility, Hope 
is born. What says the text ? " For now we see 
through a glass darkly." "Now ! " Then we may 
know more hereafter ? — light may yet break upon 
our shadowed vision ? Does it not imply so ? 
Were this portion of the verse unconnected, did 



HUMILITY AND HOPE. 



17 



it stand alone, (and as a clause by itself we are 
now considering it,) would it not imply so? 
Wherefore do we see at all, if we are ever only 
to catch glimpses of things ? Why are powers of 
vision given to the soul, if they are only for par- 
tial sight ? But " we see through a glass darkly " 
True, but we see. Shall we always behold 
doubtingly and dimly ? Does it say always ? — that 
we always shall thus be limited and powerless 
and ignorant ? No ; it says " novj we see through 
a glass darkly." But let these fleshy bars be 
laid aside, let these earthly scales fall from our 
eyes, let the wider field of immortality spread 
beneath our spirit-feet, let the soul go up to its 
second stage of progress, and shall we not know 
more, far more ? Shall we not go among the 
stars, and learn the way of their courses, and 
hear, far on and far up, the music that peals out 
from them ; and tread the archways of the im- 
mense, and drink in more and more of the infinite ? 
So Hope is bom with Humility, in this matter. 

II. But " now we see through a glass darkly." 
I remark, in the second place — How unstable 
and shifting are human theories ! — how fallible are 
our opinions ! The wisdom of one age, what is it 
to another ? Foolishness ! The philosophy of 
to-day, over which grave sages sit with venerabla 
2* 



18 



DISCOURSES. 



air, and which they proclaim with eloquent zeal, 
is beheld, to-morrow, as the exploded vagary of 
the enthusiast or the sceptic, and is despised and 
laughed at. The olden wisdom, the systems of 
dreamers in the ancient time, where are they 
now ? Wrecked, shattered, sunken ! Gone down 
in'.o the depths of change and time, through 
whose flood some venturous diver now and then 
plunges, bringing up their fragments to prop his 
crazy theory, or to prove his lore by giving to 
the world some curious specimen of antiquity. 
And yet, these were glorious dreams in their 
day ; wrought out and spun with threads of gold 
and gorgeous tissues from many a busy brain ; 
yea, perchance, containing among their despised 
and moth-eaten superstitions portions of rare 
nobility and wondrous beauty, that shame the 
coarseness and littleness of many a modern sage. 
So passed the wisdom of Zoroaster and Hermes, 
of Pythagoras and Plato. And so pass the theo- 
ries and systems of the present. Built up by 
one school and battered down by another — sect 
striving with sect, and party with party — even the 
reformer interweaving his materials and basing 
his fabric upon the broken errors of the reformed. 
Oh! " we see through a glass darkly." 

How imperfect, too, are all our best efforts ! 
something still beyond, more beautiful, but 



HUMILITY AND HOPE, 



It 



shadowy, that we cannot grasp — something that 
we still want, but cannot find more grace in 
our conception than we can chisel upon the 
marble — a deeper, inspiration in our spirit than 
we can breathe in our song — a mightier idea in 
our thought than we can utter in words. Who 
has not felt this ? 

And, then, in our spiritual endeavors — know- 
ing and still resisting — repenting and still sin- 
ning ; pressing up until we can almost hear 
angel music, and then wallowing in the filth and 
debasement of earth ; attending Jesus in his 
teachings and his miracles, and denying him at 
his trial and his cross ; sitting at his feet, and 
then going out to follow and obey sin. Living 
in this way, is our spiritual vision clear ? Do we 
*iot " see through a glass darkly ? " We have 
not an unshadowed view of the loveliness of re- 
ligion ; we do not look fully upon the face of the 
Redeemer ; we do not see the end of the goal, 
the mark upon which is the prize of the high 
calling of God in Christ Jesus. Else, why this 
sinning, this lulling to sleep in the arms of 
guilt, this entanglement in the meshes of tempta- 
tion, this indolence and drowsiness and insensi- 
bility ; when God is inviting, and Jesus bleeds 
and prays for us upon the cross, and Moses and 
Paul, and reason and conscience, all, all appeal 



20 



DISCOURSES., 



to us to awake and act ? My friends, " we see 
through a glass darkly." These shifting theo- 
ries, these errors and doubts, these frailties arid 
sins, should teach us deep, sincere, lowly Hu- 
mility. 

But again, Hope is born also. Imperfect as 
our works are, have we not an idea of perfec 
tion ? Unfinished as our productions are when 
we leave this world, are the tools broken at the 
grave ? or are they, when we reach its portals, 
as it were but just prepared for use, cunning in 
their skill and polished by much labor unto keen- 
ness ? Yes, Hope springs up, and the idea of Im- 
mortality is born amid these crude works, these 
unfinished fragments, these imperfections and 
errors that lie around us. From these embers is 
kindled an undying flame — the voice of a celes- 
tial oracle issues from the crumbling shrine of 
mortality. 

Where lies the imperfection— in the capacity 
of the executor, or in the execution of the work ? 
in the idea, or in the expression ? in the thought, 
or in the word ? Plainly in the latter, while the 
executor, the capacity, the idea f are unexhausted 
and unsatisfied. And shall it always be so ? Do 
we possess capacities which shall never complete 
their work ? Have we ideas of unearthly beauty 
and of an immortal life? when the reality con- 



HU31ILIT5l AND HOPE. 



21 



fines us entirely and only to this sphere ? Have 
we faculties for a work greater than we find at 
our hands, have we powers that fit us for eter- 
nal progress, and are these faculties, these pow- 
ers, abortive ? Why have they been given us ? 
To mock our hopes ? To excite aspirations that 
never shall be answered ? Is it so, is it so, that 
when our powers are the fullest developed — when 
they have toiled and toiled, and are just enabled 
to reap the fruits of their toil — is it so, that they 
are then crushed and broken forever ? The strings 
of the lyre snapped asunder, when they have just 
been tuned to cunning melody and are uttering 
their sweetest music ? No ! there is an immor- 
tality for man. These chippings and parings, 
these imperfect statues, these half-formed monu- 
ments, are the attempts of the 'pupil, fitted, by 
laboring upon them, to go into a wider and more 
perfect field and work out his mastery. " When," 
says the gifted, but erring and misguided Shelley, 
u you can discern where the fresh colors of the 
faded flower abide, or the music of the broken 
lyre, seek life among the dead." But the poor- 
est peasant, upon whose tomb-stone is inscribed 
"He sleeps in Jesus," refutes him. He refutes 
him, who drew up the coarse covering of his bed, 
and clasped his toil-worn hands and murmured a 
dying prayer ; for that inscription is the expres- 



22 DISCOURSES, 

sion of a universal hope that in him has found 
its fruition — that prayer was the aspiration of a 
deathless spirit that has gone to find its answer. 

Oh yes ! we do 4 4 see through a glass darkly f 9 
but still we see. Shadows fall athwart our 
vision, clouds part and thicken, when we seek to 
look across that stream of death — but still we 
catch glimpses of something beyond. Were we. 
stone-blind, were it total obscuration, the scep- 
tic's argument might suffice. But darkly as we 
see through this glass, we see ! So Hope again is 
born with Humility. 

III. But " now we see through a glass dark- 
ly." I remark, once more, that, when we find 
how little we really know of the economy of the 
universe, and of the designs of the Creator, we 
should learn Humility. Do we not often con- 
duct as if we knew and saw all these designs — the 
result as well as the process, the whole as well 
as a part ? I have heard in a city, when the still 
night brooded over it, and the lights were gone 
from the windows, and the tumult from the 
streets, one watchman crying to another — " All 
is well ! " And all was well to his eye. All was 
well in these still streets, upon those glittering 
domes and sloping roofs that were spread around 
him* But, oh ! beneath, shut in and hidden 



HUMILITY AND HOPE. 



23 



from him, how many hearts were aching, how 
many sick heads throbbed upon their pillows, 
how many tears were flowing because of separa- 
tions that would take place at morning — how 
many agonies, how many griefs, how many fears 
were stirring but a little way from him, on his 
right hand and his left ! And was all well 
then ? If it were so in that one city, was it so 
everywhere, through all the cities, and hamlets, 
and homes of the land — of the vast, wide world ? 
But still he proclaimed all well. His all was 
well ; all that he saw, all of which he took cog- 
nizance — but that was not the whole city, the 
country, the world. So apt are men to make 
that which is immediately around them, the all. 

But now, had fire broken out in one of these 
dwellings, how would the inhabitants have leaped 
from their beds with screams and wild affright ; 
and as they saw their home crashing down in 
ruin, as they saw their property shrivelling in the 
flame, as they beheld nothing before them but 
the cold charities of a cold world — poverty, des- 
titution, beggary ; to them it was all ill; their 
world was darkened — they saw no light or 
beauty; and yet the heavens were as sweet and 
fair, the stars looked down as brightly, and the 
morning sunshine would linger around those 
ashes as pleasantly, and would wake up joy and 



24 



DISCOURSES", 



hope and laughter from their slumbers, as everb© 
fore. Their all was dark— the universal all was 
bright and glad. Is there nought like this that 
occurs every day in the world ? Do not men y 
beholding in the narrow limit of their vision 
good or evil, say " all is good" — " all is bad " ? 
And yet, how little of the all— of the universe — of 
the working of this great economy of things — of 
its objects and results — how little do they know ! 
Conscious, then, of this ignorance, let us cherish 
Humility, 

But again is Hope born with Humility. We 
see but a little part of the works of Deity, but 
still we do see j and in the intention of all that 
meets our vision Goodness is manifested ; evil 
comes in only when, at first, to our narrow idea 
of things, that intention appears frustrated. But 
from frequent experience we know that this is not 
a defeat, but only one place in which good is 
manifested, or, at least, one trial through which 
virtue is strengthened and made better. If, then, 
all we see and experience bears the stamp of In- 
finite Goodness, and even that which is evil 
comes in as an accident rather than an original 
design, and often, in the narrow limit of our vis- 
ion, is overruled for good and works to that end, 
we may safely infer that that which we do not see 
or experience is the economy of the same Infinite 



HUMILITY AND HOPE. 



25 



Goodness, and that the evil that in this sphere is 
not overruled for good, will ultimately, when our 
perceptions are enlarged, be swallowed up in the 
triumph of virtue and happiness. Yes, limited as 
is our sight, seeing " through a glass darkly," 
still we see enough of the working of this stu- 
pendous mechanism of things to rook for the vic- 
tory of Goodness over all forms of evil — for uni- 
versal light and peace. From the rifts of dark 
clouds, a brightness glimmers out that shows us 
the immutable heaven above — that shows us what 
may be revealed when these clouds pass away. 
So Hope again springs up, amid our ignorance 
and doubt. 

So may we reason in our individual afflictions. 
For the time, and as far as we can see around us, 
they are grievous and painful ; but if we look up 
with a calm faith, although we may " see through 
a glass darkly," we shall see ; and if we wait 
with a pious trust, by-and-by the mystery will be 
revealed to us, and we shall discover the fruits 
of good seed that was sown in the night of our 
sorrow and watered by our tears— we shall dis- 
cover that our light affliction wrought out for us 
a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory. 
Thy trial, oh Christian martyr ! was grievous 
and cruel. Chained to the stake, clasped by the 
flame, derided and smitten by thy persecutors, 
3 



26 



DISCOURSES. 



thy sufferings and torture were great. Yet, look- 
ing through the fire, thou didst catch " a glimpse 
of the martyr's heaven," and thy ashes and blood 
have become " the seed of the church." Thy 
weeping, oh gray-haired sire ! for that prodigal 
boy, was long and bitter. Dark was the hour to 
thee when he thrust aside thy love, and left thee, 
with thy bowed head, to mourn. Thou couldst 
not read the meaning of this sorrow then — thou 
didst read it when thine arms were around the 
penitent, when his tears mingled with thine, and 
the words of gratitude and reconciliation assured 
thee that now he was linked to thee by cords 
that the world could not sever, and his feet would 
wander from thee no more. Thy grief, oh 
mourning mother ! was sad and stern. It was 
hard to part from that loved child. It was hard 
to put back the tresses from his pale brow, and 
kiss his quivering lips, and see him die. It ivas 
hard to lay him in his little grave, and place the 
green turf above him for the sunlight and the 
rain to fall upon, and then to return to hear the 
music of his voice no more. Oh ! all this was 
hard, and in thy season of bitter agony thou 
didst not see why it was so. But when days 
shall glide on, and thou dost find how much of thy 
treasure now is laid up in heaven — how the need 
of support, the desire of consolation, has led thee 



HUMILITY AND HOPE. 



27 



to commune with God — how the holy resigna- 
tion, the peaceful hope, the upward-looking faith 
have taken up their abode within thy heart ; yea, 
when, in the consummation, thou shalt discover 
how great a part thy child has performed, in 
bringing thee home to himself and to heaven and 
to thy Father — when from the darkness all these 
revelations shall burst in light upon thee, then 
thou wilt learn the meaning of thy affliction. 

Thus, then, although " we see through a glass 
darkly," let us, in the darkest season, hope. 

My friends, let the text teach us to be Humble 
and Hopeful. Pilgrims are we — travellers seek- 
ing a better country. Let us be humble. We 
are liable to err, frail, weak, dependent. Let us 
be hopeful ; we catch glimpses of the wished-for 
goal — we have encouragement upon our way ; 
unseen messengers of mercy are around us — we 
have a Father in Heaven. Striving to learn, let 
us not be proud ; convinced of our feebleness, let 
us not despond. Sinners, let us repent. Let us 
. follow Christ and rejoice. Thus let us live, thus 
let us act, until this mortal glass through which 
"we see darkly" shall be broken at the grave, 
and* we shall rise, to " see as we are seen, and 
to know even as we are known." 



DISCOURSE IL 



TRUTH IN CONTRASTS. 

John viii. 23. — And he said unto them, Ye are from be- 
neath ; I am from above : ye are of this world ; I am not of this 
world. 

This was said by our Savior to the Jews. 
Whitby paraphrases the passage thus : " Ye are 
from beneath, and so can think and speak only 
of earthly things ; I am from above, and so speak 
of the things above, whither I am going ; ye are 
of this world, and so your thoughts, affections* 
words and actions, wholly respect this world : I 
am not of this world, and so my life and doctrine 
suits not with your temper, nor have you any 
right apprehensions of my saying." 

Jesus of Nazareth stood directly opposed in his 
character and teachings to those whom he was 
addressing. The malicious and jealous princi- 
ples of the Pharisee, his self-righteous acts, his 
narrow views, were in vivid contrast with the 
purity and spirituality of the Redeemer, with his 
universal love, his forgiving and gentle disposi- 
tion, and his enlarged and glorious designs. They j 
were from beneath ; he was from above : they 
were, of this world; he was not of this world. 
What was the creed of the Pharisee ? — for in him 



TRUTH IN CONTRASTS. 



29 



we behold the prominent opposer to the teachings 
and ministrations of the Savior ; — what was the 
creed of the Pharisee — what was his general 
character ? At the time to which our text refers, 
although their origin is not well known, they 
were the most famous and powerful sect of the 
Jews. They were distinguished for their strict 
observance of the Oral Law, as it is called, 
which they believed to have been delivered by an 
archangel to Moses, during his forty days' resi- 
dence in Mount Sinai, from whom it was com- 
mitted to seventy elders, who transmitted it to pos- 
terity. With the observance of this and the Writ- 
ten Law, they held that " a man may not only 
obtain justification with God, but perform merito- 
rious works of supererogation.'" " Fasting, alms- 
giving, ablutions, and confession," according to 
them, ,; are sufficient atonements for sin." They 
made long and frequent prayers in public — had 
broad phylacteries, or rolls of parchment in which 
were written sentences of the law, upon their 
garments— were assiduous in making proselytes 
■ — ostentatious in charity ; " and under all this 
show of zeal and piety," says a writer, " their 
vanity, avarice, licentiousness and impiety, called 
forth many severe rebukes from our Savior." 

These principles were opposed to the system 
of Jesus, That enjoined a severe internal purity, 
3# 



m 



of which the outward form was but the frames 
work and expression. It 'did not rest in medita- 
tion, fasting, prayer, as ends, but as means to the 
performance of duty and spiritual cultivation. It 
rebuked self-righteousness, teaching that the hum- 
ble and despised publican offered a more accept- 
able prayer than the boasting Pharisee. And 
how did it rebuke inward sin and hypocrisy ! — 
how did it rebuke the whited sepulchre, which 
outwardly is beautiful to view, but is within filled 
with dead men's bones and all uncleanness I How 
did it teach the principle of a universal brother- 
hood, a love that is world-wide, an enlarged and 
expanded charity and sympathy ! Opposed, di- 
rectly opposed, was the doctrine of the Re- 
deemer to that of his persecutors and enemies 
— to that of those whom he came to teach and 
guide, to lead from their bondage and darkness" 
into the ways of eternal life. His was the light 
that issues from pure fountains on high — that 
streams in living radiance from heaven ; theirs 
were the rays that are born of earth, that bum 
with a dim and fitful light, and fade and leave us 
in darkness. Theirs was from beneath ; his from 
above : theirs was of this world ; his was not of 
this world. 

But, to leave the particular circumstances of 
the text, it may not be unprofitable for us to con- 
trast some of the principles that are in existence 



TRUTH tS CONTRASTS- 



31 



in society and in the individual, with some of the 
principles of Christ's gospel— of his religion — and 
see if it may not be said in each case, by the one, 
in its comparison with the other — " Ye are from 
beneath ; I am from above : ye are of this world ; 
I am not of this world." 

I. In the first place, compare the system it- 
self of Jesus Christ with all other religious or 
philosophical systems in the world. Some of 
these have involved depraved and debased prin- 
ciples ; have been founded with the sword and in 
blood ; have appealed to man's grosser passions 
and superstition. The system of Jesus in- 
volves the best teachings, the most perfect mo- 
rality, the loftiest principles of action ever pre- 
sented to the consideration of man— (this even 
the infidel will allow)— and it is based upon the 
great essentials of love to God and love to man, 
Their votaries have lifted up their darkened brows 
in the shadow of deep and night-like error— have 
bowed before altars smoking with profane sacri- 
fices and reeking with unhallowed blood. The 
true disciples of Christ have worshipped, and may 
worship, in the broad, full light of truth, with 
spiritual sacrifices of love and devotion warm upon 
their hearts, and with holy thoughts, like angel 
messengers, going between them and heaven, 



«82 



DISCOURSES* 



Their systems have laid heavy burdens upon 
man, have fettered him to wearisome rites, and 
lifeless, needless forms ; yet leaving in their hearts 
the interests, passions and cares of the flesh and 
the world, untamed, unguided. The religion of 
Christ has left man m free— free from all burden- 
some rites, free from all unmeaning forms ; — but 
it has touched his soul, and has broken off the 
shackles of inward sin that bound him there ; has 
purified his motives, elevated his thoughts, chas- 
tened his desires, conquered his passions, directed 
his powers— has reared up a shrine, and given 
calm waters of holiness and joy in the depths of 
his spirit that reflect the image of the Redeemer 
and the beauty of heaven. And as to earth's 
philosophies, take from them that which is not 
their own — that which may be the fragments of 
an early revelation— and how do they compare 
with the doctrine, the heaven-sent philosophy of 
Christ? They have no standard of stability — 
no authority of unerring wisdom. The gospel 
is immutable, for it rests upon eternity — unerring, 
for it is the word of God. Depending upon mere 
human reasonings, they are dark and uncertain 
as to the most vital truths— they plant no immor- 
tal flowers above the tomb* The gospel throws 
back the misty curtain, where reason stands trem- 
bling, thwarted and dismayed, and reveals the 



TRUTH W CONTRASTS. 



33 



light of upper worlds. The mysteries of existence, 
the uncertainties of hypothesis, are illumined 
with rays of eternal truth. The shores of im- 
mortality — 

" Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood — 
Stand dressed in living green." 

" It is a difficult matter," says Plato, " to find 
out the Maker and Parent of the universe ;" and 
then, he thought it not proper or safe to commu- 
nicate the truth to all. But the Savior says, — 
" When ye pray, say — Our Father which art in 
heaven." Speaking of a future life, says Socra- 
tes, " That these things are so, as I have repre- 
sented them, it does not become any man of un- 
derstanding to affirm." " I am taking a leap in 
the dark," says David Hume. But, says Jesus, 
" I am the resurrection and the life : he that be- 
lieveth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he 
live ; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, 
shall never die." "A wise man might, upon a 
fit occasion, commit murder, sacrilege, etc., for 
none of these things are base in their own nature, 
if that opinion concerning them be taken away, 
which was agreed upon for the sake of restrain- 
ing fools," is the morality of one. " Thou shalt 
love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and all 
thy soul, and all thy mind ; and thou shalt love 
thy neighbor as thyself," says Christ. 



34 



DISCOURSES. 



Thus, in contrasting the system of Jesus with 
other religions, with other philosophies, how does 
it stand out superior in its brightness, its purity, 
its power, from them all, as he stood out from 
among men ! How may it say, in triumph, to 
these — " Ye are from beneath ; I am from above : 
ye are of this world ; I am not of this world." 

II. But we will proceed to speak of some 
specific principles of action, which may not inap- 
propriately be thus contrasted. There are those 
passions that centre upon self, or operate to 
the injury of others, on the one hand ; and on 
the other, that expansive spirit of love, known by 
the name of charity. How narrow and base the 
one spirit ! How does it contract the delicate 
fibres of the heart, and turn its streams of kindly 
feeling to bitterness and gall ! How nobly ope- 
rates the other, tuning the soul like a gentle 
instrument to sympathy, and making its many 
chords to respond to all the varied utterance of 
kindred souls ! Revenge, dark revenge — upon 
what horrid food does it glut and gorge, feeding 
upon the anticipated agonies of its victim, and 
strengthening its sinews in its protracted hunt, 
even with the baleful scent of blood. Oh ! not 
so sweet-souled Charity. Susceptible to insult, 
it bathes with tears the hand that smites it, turns 



TRUTH m CONTRASTS. 



35 



and binds up the wounds of him whose arm was 
raised to crush, and even amid the agonies of 
death, prays for the forgiveness of its foes. Sel- 
fishness, suspicious, contracted, stern — it thinks 
but of its own good, let humanity crave and 
bleed and suffer as it will. Charity, — the world 
has its thoughts and prayers — for the world it 
acts — for the world it sacrifices and suffers — and 
often, often leaves behind as its memorial a mar- 
tyr's tomb. Hatred, how does it scowl in the 
light of the clear, calm heaven, upon the face of 
its fellow-man, and how distorted to its vision 
are all the features and actions of its object ! 
Not so with Love — it has a sunny smile, a warm, 
fond heart ; it has an earnest prayer, a gentle 
word, a beneficial deed for those who want ; it 
embraces wide humanity in its grasp, and thinks 
and acts for all. Place these different principles 
in contrast, my hearers : selfishness, revenge, 
hatred, on the one hand ; Christian charity, love, 
upon the other ; and may not the last say to the 
first — " Ye are from beneath ; 1 am from above : 
ye are of this world ; I am not of this world" ? 

III. Again, theie is Doubt on the one hand : 
on the other, Faith. How different these in their 
operation ! The one sees shifting light and 
shade before it, alternating ever ; now rays of 



36 



DISCOURSES. 



sunshine, and glimpses of fair, green lands — now 
clouds, from which start misty and distorted 
shapes ; and so it has no fixed joy, no sure and 
stable rest. The other serenely, with a clear 
vision and an unwavering trust, looks far through 
the rifted cloud, and gazes into heaven. The 
one starts to hear the winds whistling through 
its cordage, the creaking timbers, the straining 
masts, the billows that dash and chafe around its 
bark, and hurries blindly, darkling, through the 
mist — the other sets its firm sails, places its com- 
pass, leans upon its helm, and reading with atten 
tive soul its chart, glides onward undoubting to 
its haven and feels already the breath of land 
upon its brow. The one, even in strength and 
youth, feels its powers wasting away in racking 
cares, its heart dried up as by an inward thirst, 
and stands among the evils of existence and the 
mementoes of mortality, in sorrow, desolation, 
fear. The other, old and gray-headed, sits by 
the grave of the departed, with a placid counte- 
nance and a patient soul, believing and rejoicing, 
weeping yet trusting ; weak, deserted, poor, yet 
happy ; its treasures laid up above ; its " heart a 
passion-flower, in which are the crown of thorns 
and the cross of Christ." Such, such are Doubt 
and Faith. How many of earth's pilgrims have 
experienced them both, and know this to be true 1 



TRUTH IN CONTRASTS. 



3? 



How different the one from the other ! How 
soaring, how calm, how triumphant, Faith ! how 
timid, how sad, how vacillating, Doubt I Oh! 
leaning upon the strength of Revealed Promise, 
how looks the first back upon the last !— ho w truly 
may it exclaim—' 4 Ye are from beneath ; I am 
from above ; — ye are of this world ; I am not of 
this world." 

IV. Again: there are Care and Peace — I 
mean worldly ^.re, heavenly peace. This is 
never at rest ; it sorrows with the sorrow of this 
world for treasure lost, in the heaping up of 
which long years have been spent ; it frets with 
disappointment at the loss of some trifling, tem- 
porary object This is ever at rest ; not with " a 
calm like that which follows storms," fitful, liable 
to be broken ; but with a pure, immutable joy, 
like the waters that are shadowed by the green 
palms above — like the face of the upper and un- 
changeable sky. And this peace is away down 
in the depths of the . soul, so that its best and 
holiest thoughts are calm, and the losses and dis- 
appointments of earth leave it not without its 
consolation and its joy. Worldly care gives a 
haggard countenance, fires the eye, and makes 
lean the soul. Not so with this Peace — in the 
busiest moment it reflects a sweet serenity in the 
4 



88 DISCOURSES. 



face, mirrors 'itself in the gentle, happy look, 
and flows with its fountain of bliss ever pleas- 
antly and glad in the heart, amid the springs of 
thought and action. Who has not known care ? 
It gives to the sky a leaden hue, to the earth a 
dreariness — it plants thorns in the pillow of re- 
pose, it feeds itself upon the thoughts of ambi- 
tion and reaches for a laurel-wreath that crum- 
bles in its grasp — it seeks for wealth, and its 
gold turns to ashes — it drinks the draught of 
pleasure, and finds " the uns#en serpent that 
lurks below." Who would not enjoy Peace? 
How does the deep and yearning spirit sigh for 
it amid this busy and tumultuous world ! " Oh ! 
that I had wings like a dove ; then would I flee 
away and be at rest." .The sweets that this 
offers never cloy ; it comes into the yearning 
heart, and it aches no more ; it soothes the 
throbbing and care-worn brow with a soft and 
gentle hand, and it throbs not again. ■ Peace, 
peace, so different from care ; so full of activity, 
and yet it is peace ; so needed by the spirit that 
it comes to rejoice — it is the bliss that angels 
know. As it displaces from the contrite, repent- 
ant soul these tumults, perplexities, anxieties, 
how may it exclaim, and that soul acknowledge 
with joy the truth of what it says — " Ye are 
from beneath ; I am from above : ye are of this 
world ; I am not of this world." » 



TRUTH IN CONTRASTS. 



39 



V. Let me present one more contrast — Sin 
and Holiness. Sin, with its burning passions, 
its evil thoughts, its wicked works. Holiness, 
with its pure motives, its deeds of righteousness, 
and its divine communion. The one kindles 
unhallowed fires within the spirit, leads it in a 
low and grovelling course, and draws it away 
from God. The other teaches it to love God and 
to love man, to love all good, lights up in it the 
flame of pure devotion, and guides it in ways of 
pleasantness, in paths of peace. The one has 
caused the moral evils of the world, the desola- 
tions that man has wrought upon himself and 
upon his fellow : wars have come forth from it ; 
drunkenness, reviling, thefts and murders have 
followed in its train ; passion has scathed and 
withered in its track ; tears and blood and ashes 
have strewn its way. The other has given those 
blessings that, where they have fallen, have made 
earth to be like Eden of old, and caused it almost 
to mirror heaven. Where it has dwelt, there love 
has dwelt, and joy, peace, long-suffering, gentle- 
ness, goodness, faith, meekness, and temperance. 
The one has alienated man from God and duty, 
deluded him with fleeting, unsubstantial joys, 
and made him wretched. The other has brought 
the prodigal home, has reconciled him to his 
Father, has given him a foretaste of immortal 



40 



DISCOURSES. 



good, and made him truly happy. The one Jesus 
came to destroy, to break its bands, to trample it 
in the dust ; its memorials are the crown of 
thorns, the spear, the cross. The other Jesus 
came to bring, to shed abroad like the day-spring 
from on high in human hearts and make them 
shout for joy; and its memorials are the an- 
gels' song, the penitent's tear, the unsealed sepul- 
chre. Oh ! is not here a difference ? How like 
day compared with night, beams one in contrast 
with the other ! How wounding, blighting, sad, 
the effects of this ; how healing and blessed the 
results of that ! How may Holiness exclaim to 
Sin — " Ye are from beneath ; I am from above : 
ye are of this world ; I am not of this world." 

I have thus, my hearers, drawn contrasts be- 
tween principles that now exist upon earth, that 
agitate the bosom of man. The one class result 
from an obedience to our own evil desires, our 
selfish passions, and our unguided hearts ; the 
other are the effects of a religious principle estab- 
lished in the soul. And now let me ask you 
which will you choose ? Oh ! will you not say 
at once, the Gospel of Jesus Christ before all 
other systems — charity before selfishness and 
evil passion, faith before doubt, peace before care, 
holiness before sin ? You say so — do you feel 
so ? If you feel so, will you not be true to those 



TRUTH IN CONTRASTS. 



41 



better emotions that urge you now ? Oh ! will 
you go forth from this place to quell them in a 
course of sin? to let the pleasures, the interests, 
the cares of life, spring up within your hearts 
and choke them ? Truth may be illustrated in 
various ways ; by argument, by contrast, by alle- 
gory ; in many forms it may make its impression 
upon the mind. To-day, we have shown you 
truth in brief contrasts. You must have seen 
that truth evolving from what we have said — the 
truth that religion is superior to worldliness, in- 
asmuch as the one " is from beneath, the other 
from above ; the one of this world, the other not 
of this worlds" And now let me ask you, again, 
which will you choose ? Shall the claims, the 
superiority, the benefits of religion be unheeded 
by you ? Shall this sabbath pass by and yet they 
be unheeded ? Oh ! J trust not. <jro home this 
day, and in your own hearts communing with 
God, repent, resolve that you will make this 
eternal life yours— that the better and the higher 
principles you will choose out and place above 
the principles of earth. Prayer will do this, 
resolution will do this, grace will do this. Let 
not these entreaties, I beseech you, be unheeded. 

" I am not of this world." How sublime this 
announcement of the Eedeemer, as he stood be- 
fore his opposers ! To leave out all discussion 
4* 



42 



DISCOURSES. 



concerning his nature and his titles, how truly 
does it describe his own character and the nature 
of his mission.' That lowly prophet, humble* 
coarse-clad, meek, was the Messiah, long fore- 
told by prophet, priest, and bard. He came. 
They looked for a king— he was a king ; they 
looked for a conqueror— he was a conqueror? 
but they knew him not. They looked for the 
outward pomp, the impress of human regalia — 
the baton and the sword. They saw not his dig- 
nity in his teachings, his authority in his deeds, 
his power and triumph in spiritual and eternal 
things. How should they ? They were " from 
beneath ; he was from above : they w T ere of this 
world; he was not of this world. " So there 
are many at this day who are conscious of no 
power and beauty in the religion of Jesus, that 
is superior to aught upon^ earth. Their hearts 
have never been opened to its influences— they 
have never been awakened from their worldly 
day-dreams to look upon the realities of the 
soul and of heaven. Their passions urge them— 
iheir interests blind them— their cares distract 
them. Let the voice of Jesus reach them now y 
let them heed its summons— and the scales shall 
fall from their eyes, they shall see his beauty and 
his excellence, and be " born again." 

w Not of this world," There is a glorious In* 



TRUTH IN CONTRASTS. 



43 



umph in aught that can say this of itself ; and yet 
it brings with it mournful associations. We look 
abroad upon the earth, and the process of ever* 
lasting change is going on ; we hear " the sound 
of universal wasting/' and on its most beautiful 
objects there is written, "passing away." The 
glory oP the rainbow, the purple radiance of the 
cloud, the tint of the rose of June, are not the only 
objects that fade before our vision. The lofty, the 
magnificent, the strong likewise depart* and leave 
their places vacant. Even the solid monuments* 
upon which man spent time, toil and wealth, 
and that have towered for ages above his ashes* 
crumble down and become mingled with the ashes 
that they covered. But the inanimate objects of 
earth, that have no thoughts, that sympathize not 
with us, and whose places others like them shall 
supply, are not the only objects that pass away. 
The living and the loved, the dear ones with 
whom we hold communion, for whom our hearts 
put forth their fibres and around whom they cling, 
whose places can never be supplied on earth — * 
these leave us also. On the brow of beauty, in 
the eye of love, upon the form of strength, over 
the pleasant and familiar face, there comes a 
change, and we are left desolate. Then it is that, 
looking upon the mutations of the physical world, 
we learn that they are but types of human affairs? 



44 



DISCOURSES* 



which shift and change, and have their lights and 
shadows also. So, we say, when we see the na- 
ture of this sphere in which we are placed, and 
of all the objects connected with it> we feel that 
there is a triumph in aught that can say — " I am 
not of this world" — a triumph that brings with 
it sad memories and associations. »But, my 
hearers, there is that within us which can say— 
" I am not of this world." The redeemed, the 
loving and trusting soul, with its best hopes fixed 
above, calm amid all earth's changes, its disap- 
pointments, its storms, can look at these passing 
objects and exclaim—" Ye are from beneath ; I 
am from above : ye are of this world ; I am not 
of this world." " Not of this world ! " then there 
is another ? Oh ! yes, a brighter, a better world ; 
a world whose beauty never fades, whose joy is 
eternal. A land of clear waters and green and 
shady palms, for the weary and broken-hearted 
pilgrim— then weary and broken-hearted no more. 
A land of unchanging songs and ceaseless adora- 
tion ; a land where the lost and the loved meet, 
with no tears, no sin, no pain, no death, "nor 
anything else to interrupt their felicity." 

My friends, these are some of the reflections 
that the text inspires. Carry them home with 
you. Act upon them, I beseech you. Act upon 
the entreaties which have been made to repent- 



TRUTH LN* CONTRASTS 



45 



ance and religion. May our souls become so 
changed, so filled with new elements of holiness, 
so incorporated with them, that from the depths 
of a new heart each one of us may exclaim, to the 
sins and errors that he has put by and trampled 
under foot, ;< Ye are from beneath ; I am from 
above : ye are this world; I am not of this world. 1 ' 



DISCOURSE III.* 



THE BURNING OF THE LEXINGTON. 

Jeremiah, xlix. 23. — For they have heard evil tidings ; 
ihey are faint-hearted : there is sorrow on the sea ; it can- 
not be quiet. 

The topic upon which I propose treating at 
this time may be thought, by some, trite and un- 
timely ; but we do not deem it so. It is true, that 
great calamities, although they may startle and 
appal at first, live but a brief time in the memory 
of the multitude. There is a vivid flash — a mo- 
mentary shock, when the noisy world shrinks 
back and is silent— and then the vast and busy 
machinery goes on again, the sentiment of hor- 
ror is absorbed in the rush of jarring interests 
and active life, and the event is apparently for- 
gotten ; while the hearts that were peculiarly 
torn and smitten, are left to bleed alone, and to 
heal up slowly in the obscurity of private grief and 
retirement. But in this instance, the cold thrill 
that ran through every soul upon hearing the 
" evil tidings," has not yet ceased to vibrate even 
in the great mass of community at large. The 
exclamations of surprise and horror which follow 
the dreadful announcement are yet pealing upon 



* Preached March 8th and 15th, 1840. 



BURNING OF THE LEXINGTON, 



47 



our ears from remote portions of the land. The 
waters that yawned to receive the wasted trea- 
sures, the charred and broken timbers, and the 
bodies of the drowned, have not yet become quiet 
and sealed above their awful sepulchres. Still, 
day after day, disconsolate Love and sorrowing 
Friendship are called . to the sea-shore or the 
house of the s dead, to recognise some lithe and 
perhaps mangled form, that has been given up 
and rescued from the deep. Still, ever and anon, 
some portion of sunken treasure, some relic that 
was lost with the departed, is plucked all drip- 
ping from the bosom of the element, to touch 
the chord of painful association and tear the 
wounds of affection afresh. Still, the anxious 
wife, or child or parent, at the hearth of home — 
and the distant traveller upon the heaving billows 
-—shudder with apprehension and are cold at the 
heart, as their thought goes back to that scene 
of death and terror which surrounded the doom- 
ed and burning Lexington. " For they have 
heard evil tidings ; they are faint-hearted : there 
is sorrow on the sea ; it cannot be quiet." 

Let us, then, look awhile at the circumstances 
of this sad catastrophe. A vessel plying upon 
the route between two of the most important 
cities of our country, filled with a multitude of 
human beings, in sight of a populous shore, in 



48 



DISCOURSES. 



an early hour of the evening, is suddenly en- 
wrapped in flames— surrounded by the darkness 
of the night, the inclement winter air, and a 
waste of cold and icy waters ; leaving to its 
wretched inmates, in almost every instance, no- 
thing but the dreadful alternative of death by the 
consuming flame or by the freezing flood. The 
alarm-cry bursts from lip to lip of that startled 
throng, smiting awfully and solemnly upon each 
heart, like the tone of its own deep death-knell. 
Imagination cannot picture, or conceive, the dread 
reality. What varied circumstances — what shift- 
ing scenes in that terrific panorama of death 
were there ; yet, view them from which point 
you will, all colored with the same appalling 
gloom — all presenting the dreadful features of ter- 
ror, despair, and unutterable agony. In what di- 
verse situations did that alarm toll upon the ears 
of the threatened and the doomed ! In what va- 
rious moods of thought— in what different occu* 
pations were they engaged ! They had left, but a 
little while ago, the thronged and busy city, 
through whose streets, filled with light and life, 
and presenting all the diversities of a mimic 
world, they had so lately passed, and they were 
now, calmly as if under the roofs of their own 
dwellings, borne on with all the speed of mighty 
engines towards other thoroughfares of life and 



BURNING OF THE LEXINGTON. 



49 



action and joy, where they might mingle among 
men. Some had grasped warm hands and press- 
ed warm hearts at parting, and bidden a gay or sad, 
but, as they thought, a brief farewell. Some had 
left the couch of the sick friend, hurried forth by 
the urgency of business, with the promise and 
the thought speedily to return. Some had parted 
with the traveller's haste, who had already pass- 
ed over a long and wearisome route, and were 
looking forward with eager expectation to the 
welcome of their near and waiting homes. Some 
had come forth with the gladness and buoyancy 
of hope, with the strong purpose of gain, with 
the joyful anticipation of meeting dear and famil- 
iar faces. Some had decided to come upon a 
halting resolution — oh ! why did they thus de- 
cide ? Some were far from their homes, and 
were numbering the days that should bear them 
back. Some — but we will not pause to enume- 
rate the various circumstances under which the 
members of that group had set out, and that pre- 
ceded their solemn end. We all know the many 
motives which call out man from his home, and 
place him in the stage, the rail-road car, and the 
steamboat ; and we know, too, the diverse modes 
in which they are engaged, who journey from 
city to city of our great land, assured of the safety 
of the ordinary vehicles of travel. Suffice it 
5 



50 



DISCOURSES. 



to say, that life and hope, and memories of loved- 
ones, and innumerable thoughts and sympathies 
and feelings, were stirring in the hearts of the 
mass of beings that were so soon to go down, 
amid the chilliness of winter and the flaming 
shroud of the conflagration, to the cold and un- 
known chambers of the deep. The peculiar 
thoughts and occupations of that moment we do 
not know, for, alas ! the tongues that could tell 
us are still forever, and the sea is silent — but this 
much that we have spoken of we do know, be- 
cause we know that such are always the work- 
ings of the human heart, and, still and lifeless as 
they now are, they then were of us. How aw- 
fully, then, upon their ears, disturbing the course 
of thought and action, and sending the currents 
of life and hope back, in ice, to their fountains — 
how awfully broke that alarum — Fire ! 

What a hurried rush for safety and for life was 
there ! What piercing shrieks, bursting from 
ashy and quivering lips, rose above the hoarse 
gurgling of the waters, the roar and crackling of 
the flames, and rent the flushed and heated brow 
of night ! What frantic cries of the husband for 
the wife, the wife for the husband — the mother 
clutching wildly for her child, the child sobbing 
for its mother ! What strivings of agony with 
the hot breath of the flame and the suffocating 



BURNING OF THE LEXINGTON. 



51 



smoke — what moanings of the helpless, the 
trampled and the crushed ! What invocations for 
aid, shrieked into the ears of mortals as impotent 
— what fervent prayers, rising through the tumult 
and storm of the elements to the Eternal Throne ! 
But still the fierce flame swept relentlessly on, and 
the waters chafed and shouted for their prey ! 

The strong, brave man, perchance, was there, 
who had toiled in sun and storm, and faced the 
billows and the wind, and travelled by land and 
by sea. And with a desperate struggle did he 
meet his death, grappling and striving with the 
overwhelming and terrific powers around him as 
though they were living and conquerable things. 
As he saw behind him, in the fiery jaws of one 
element, certain destruction, with giant energy 
did he put by the dense and muffling smoke, and 
plunged with nerved limbs and dauntless heart 
into the cold arms of the other. And long did 
he battle with the waves, and shout and gurgle 
and shriek and madly toss the icy waters to and 
fro, and then, benumbed, and dead, he went 
down, down, and all was still — save a hoarse 
moaning of the deep, above his burial-place. 

Beauty, perhaps, was there, in the bloom of 
youth and health. But when the alarm-cry came, 
white was that cheek with a paleness that was 
the seal of death, and horror glared wildly in 



52 



DISCOURSES. 



those beaming eyes, and around her frail and deli- 
cate form swept the blast of the wreathing flame. 
That white hand was lifted for a moment above 
the ridgy billows, one stifled cry was heard, and 
she was gone. And now the gentle sunlight 
lingers and the sorrowful winds lament above her 
bed — but no flowers shall bloom and no tear be 
shed upon that spot beneath which, with calm 
brow, she sleeps, in some rocky and garnished 
chamber — 

" Deep in the silent waters, 
A thousand fathoms low." 

The esteemed and talented one was there. 
He who had studied, with the love of the scholar, 
the sober reason of philosophy and the earnest 
faith of Religion — whose lips had poured forth 
the words of instruction and of genius, and 
whose voice had been heard in the blessed minis- 
trations of the Gospel — was called upon thus to 
die ; — to die suddenly and amid a scene of hor- 
ror, to die while on his way to fulfil a duty of 
his sacred station, to die far away from the 
graves of his fathers and from his native land, 
and even from the tombs of those dear to him in 
the home of his adoption, and, oh ! to die away 
from the arms of that devoted wife, who sor- 
rowed for his absence, and waited with yearning 
fondness for his return. But he died leaving 



BURNING OF THE LEXINGTON. 



53 



fresh, green memories in the hearts of those who 
knew him, and a good name in the world ; and* 
better than all, he died with his armor on, as a 
soldier of the Cross. He passed away amid the 
strife of the physical elements and the sufferings 
of keenest bodily anguish ; but we may believe 
that soul that had imbibed the principles of Jesus 
was calm and triumphant amid it all, and sup* 
ported and brightened with the undying hope of 
the Christian. 

Maternal affection was there, deep, firm, and 
true to the last. Doubtless, she struggled long 
for the boon of life ; not only for herself, oh ! 
not only for herself, but for that dear babe. But 
when death came to relieve the little suffering 
child, and she gazed upon its pale brow and saw 
that it was dead, when she felt the coldness gath* 
ering closer about her own yearning heart, and 
her eyes growing dim ; still, still was she true to 
the unconquerable impulse of a mothers love ; 
and she tore her veil from off her, and cast it 
about the face of that sleeping one, that the winds 
and the waves and the ice might not treat it 
roughly, and that when they should find its little 
corse, it might be all as unmarTed and natural, 
as if it had been borne in its mother's arms, and 
laid in the calmess and beauty of its stony slumber 
at their feet. And then life fluttered and went 
5* 



54 



Discourses, 



out in that true heart, and she sunk to her un* 
known grave ! 

And so, in various modes, and under circum* 
stances marked by various degrees of horror, the 
young, the old, the rich, the poor, the talented, 
the weak, the strong— tender woman and haughty 
manhood, the budding youth and the helpless 
child— so, they were swept away, upon that 
night, and devoured by the elements ; with wild 
struggle and terrible agonies of death, with 
the flames hissing behind them and the waters 
yawning before, they passed from existence, a 
fearful mass of human life, 

" Unknelledj uncoffined, and unknown ! " 

Oh ! what, think you, Were the thoughts of 
that dark and terrific death-hour ? The reflec* 
tions and memories of a life breaking at once 
upon the throbbing brain, more painful, more 
torturing, than the flame or flood that was de- 
vouring their shrinking bodies ! The cold and 
freezing truth rushing over the heart, that they 
must die—and die thus ! The remembrance of 
loved ones, of eyes that would flow with Weeping 
for them, of homes that would be desolate, of those 
that would be left destitute— of forms and faces 
to be seen in this world no more ! And then, the 
many and varied thoughts that surround the idea 



BURNING OF THE LEXINGTON. 55 



of death— the things of religion, the concerns of 
the soul— all these breaking in, in one flood, thril- 
ling every artery of the body and every faculty of 
the mind ! Oh ! who shall attempt to describe 
that crisis ! They were human. They felt as hu* 
man beings must ever feel, borne at one sweep 
from* this mortal existence, hurried away from the 
relations of this life, suddenly, violently, and for- 
ever. 

There were a few with whom life lingered, 
But the horrors of that lingering respite, to end in 
death to most of them, as sure as it was sure that 
that drifting fabric which was consuming before 
them would sink in the engulfing waters ! In 
one moment the eager thrill of hope, in the next 
the cold, withering sensation of despair ! At one 
time, perchance, the shore is almost at hand and 
the light of comfortable dwellings streaming upon 
the vision, and the cheering sound of human 
voices swelling upon the ear ; again, and the 
frail, unmanageable object that buoys them up is 
swept back by the heaving waves, and over the 
vision comes the cold, freezing mist, and nought 
is seen but the waste of Waters lighted by the 
glare of the burning vessel, and the forms of the 
struggling and the drowned ; and nought is heard 
but the booming of the fire, the rush and welter- 
ing of the icy deep, and the shrieks and groans 



56 



DISCOURSES. 



of agony and distress. And then the thoughts 
of home, of life, of hope, nerving the arm to 
battle once more with mad desperation, and quick* 
ening the pulses of the heart to throb warmly 
again ; and then the freezing deaths coming with 
a benumbing torpor, and closing up sound, sense, 
life, and congealing the blood in its fountains* 
and turning it to stone around the heart, and the 
souls of the sufferers, one by one, passed away* 
In the midst of it all, the burning wreck sends up 
high and fitful flashes to the dark canopy of night, 
and reddens with a deeper glow the heated 
waters around it ; and then* with its fiery spires, 
towering like stately masts, and its flaming ban- 
ners all set, it shudders, crashes, and goes down ; 
the waters one moment yawning to receive their 
prey, then hissing and boiling over it— and all is 
dark ! Thus, with the exception of a few — alas ! 
how few— themselves surviving, almost incredi- 
bly, inconceivable sufferings, did those of our 
fellow-beings who on the thirteenth of January 
last, in the full enjoyment of life and its usual cir- 
cumstances, left the homes and the communion 
of men, go forth to perish in the night, by the 
flame and the flood ; thus will many of them 
sleep in the caves of those surging waters, to be 
seen of those they loved, and who loved them, no 
more, until the resurrection— until the sea shall 
have given up its dead ! And those living friends, 



BURSI^'G OF THE LEXINGTON. 



57 



those bleeding hearts, those torn and wounded 
ties — how shall they be comforted and healed ? 
" For they have heard evil tidings ; they are 
faint-hearted : there is sorrow on the sea ; it can- 
not be quiet." 

But I should not fulfil the purpose of this dis- 
course, were I to pause with details which have 
already, and in different ways, met your eyes and 
saluted your ears and smitten your hearts. Fear- 
ful and soul-thrilling as is this sad event, it is yet 
a lesson to the living — a book filled with precepts 
that are written in letters of fire ; a terrific beacon, 
in which are tongues of eloquent and all-impres- 
sive wisdom. By circumstances like these, ago- 
nizing, spirit-crushing as they have been to indi- 
viduals — their way charred, blood-marked, strewn 
with desolation and ashes — by circumstances like 
these, humanity has been often taught. The 
precepts which we shall draw from this occur- 
rence will at this time be few ; but we wish you 
to take with you a vivid memory of the catas- 
trophe, §nd to draw from it yourselves, for your 
own good and the good of others, such lessons 
as due and proper reflection will afford. 

I In the first place, then, let us recognise in 
this event the mercy of God toward us, and let 
us cherish a proper sympathy for those who are 



58 



DISCOURSES. 



afflicted by it. My friends, it might have been 
one or more of us that was thus called away in 
darkness and in agony. It might have been one 
of us — it might have been you or me ! it is no 
uncommon thing for us to journey in the railroad 
car or the steamboat. Motives comparatively 
slight will induce us to travel, and such is the ra- 
pidity of our modern vehicles, that a few hours will 
place us far, far from our homes. True, you may 
feel assured that under no circumstances would it 
have been your case to be thus situated ; and as 
things have occurred to you, it may be so ; but 
perhaps the least alteration from what has been 
— a different suggestion, or another circumstance 
from that which did take place — and you, you. 
might have been on board of the lost Lexington, 
on the night of the thirteenth of January ! But 
you are here this day. You are here, in the 
enjoyment of the air and the sunshine of this 
existence, with the currents of life flowing calmly 
through your veins, with your relations and your 
friends around you. You did not go down, on 
that awful night, to your grave among th% waters. 
You were not of those whose corses whiten on 
the bottom of the sea, or were laid on the frozen 
strand — who perished with the billows sounding 
their dirge, and the flaming vessel for their fune- 
ral pyre ! You were warm in the comforts of your 



BURNING OF THE LEXINGTON. 



59 



dwellings, when the fire and the flood were accom- 
plishing their doom ; you stood, as it were, at a 
distance and saw the terror — you lived to hear of 
it — you did not feel, And is it not because of 
God's mercy that you are here ? Why were they 
taken and you left ? Praise God ; oh ! let us 
praise God for his mercies to us-ward. He hath 
shielded us, while others have been exposed to the 
storm ; He hath preserved us, while others have 
perished ! But I trust that you will not forget 
that there are those w r ho, although they were 
spared themselves, are bleeding at the heart, and 
desolate with sorrow. Do not, because yourselves 
are spared — because your friends are left to you — 
because no life and no treasure were lost to you — 
do not congratulate yourselves with selfish joy, 
and shut up your sympathies within your own 
souls ! Let this occurrence be the means of im- 
proving some of your better feelings, by opening 
your hearts to the woes of others, and softening 
them with sympathy. Oh ! there are those who 
do weep, because of this mournful catastrophe ! — 
they do weep, although the eye of the sordid 
world may not see them, and although its heart- 
less crowds have forgotten them and their sor- 
row. Oh ! the homes and the hearts that were 
left desolate that night. Oh ! the peculiar nature 
of that grief, that flowed in upon the mourner's 



60 



DISCOURSES. 



spirit as coldly as the waters flowed over their 
lost, their ocean-buried dead ! 

There were children gathered around their 
mother's knees in a distant home that night, and 
perchance they looked up into her gentle face, 
and caught from it the beaming smile of joy that 
accompanied the announcement that their father 
was on his way to greet them ! Alas ! the dark 
sea lay between him and them, and little did they 
think, when they opened their eyes, to hail with 
gladness another day that, they thought, brought 
him nearer to them — little did they think that the 
husband, the father, rested cold and still beneath 
that sea, and that the hours flew on to bring them 
the tidings that he was lost ! 

Love lit its watch-fire upon that sad night. It 
looked out, peering through the darkness, almost 
in sight of the burning wreck, for the well-known 
form, so endeared to it by the strongest of earthly 
bonds. But that form came not. It had passed 
away from life forever. The bridal altar would 
never be lighted for him. The true glance of 
affection should beam upon him no more. His 
voice of love would never greet the ear — it went 
out in a lone, wild shriek upon the night air ! 
The heart that beat for him in anxious expecta- 
tion would never press his heart — the dashing 
waves had gone over it, and it was cold and still ! 



BURNING OF THE LEXINGTON. 



61 



A splendid mansion waited for its owner. Its 
hall, perchance, was lighted, and its doors left 
ajar; and there were those who listened to catch 
the echoes of his well-known step. But that 
mansion received him, living-, no more. That 
midnight lamp might burn on until the dawn, but 
he would not return. Those doors should open to 
his touch never again. Those anxious watchers 
listened in vain for his tread. Oh ! sad, sad were 
the tidings that broke upon their ears, instead of 
the sounds of that well-known step. Dark, dark 
was that hearth, from which his familiar face was 
absent — absent to greet them there no more ! 

But why draw the veil aside from the varied 
circumstances of private grief? Were we dis- 
posed to do so, can we think to paint the agonies 
that stir within the urn of tears — the stern and 
bitter thoughts that rend the innermost souls of 
the bereft ? Oh ! for these sorrowing ones let 
your tenderest sympathies be awakened. They 
are human beings like you — human beings, upon 
whom has fallen this calamity with stifling, crush- 
ing weight. Pity them, then, as brethren — as 
children of a common humanity, liable to the 
same keen feelings of joy and wo. Learn from 
this event to love the Lord thy God. Behold 
how merciful he has been 'that thou art spared. 
Learn to love thy neighbor as thyself- — to pity 
6 



62 



DISCOURSES. 



these afflicted ones ; — " For they have heard evil 
tidings ; they are faint-hearted : there is sorrow 
on the sea; it cannot be quiet." May God be with 
them ! May Jesus visit them ! May He, who 
alone can give efficient help, pour balm upon 
the wounded heart of the widow, and shield, and 
preserve, and guide the destitute orphan, and give 
a support to the bowed and mourning parent, and 
bestow consolation upon all the bereaved relatives 
and friends ! And may He put it into our minds 
to do our whole duty in this matter ! 

II. We learn from this dread event how frail 
and uncertain are human affairs. Look at the 
circumstances in which those, our fellow-beings, 
were taken away. Did they perish amid the car- 
nage of desolating battle ? Did they perish on 
the distant ocean, far from human homes, amid 
its booming surges and its lonely rocks, in tempest 
and in storm ? Did they die under the blast of 
the deadly pestilence, when the coming of its 
swift wing was hourly looked for ? Was it amid 
the whirlwind or the earthquake that they passed 
away? No! — in none of these forms. They 
were swept away on the frequented waters of 
a familiar journey — waters that are generally 
passed over in a short -space of time. They were 
destroyed in a vessel in which thousands had been 



BURNING OF ^ THE LEXINGTON. 



63 



borne in perfect safety, and in which we, a few 
hours before, would have ventured, it is probable, 
with perfect confidence. They were going from 
place to place, in sight of populous towns and 
villages, upon an ordinary journey, expecting, 
many of them, with the early day to be at their 
journey's end. The shock fell upon them as if 
from the cloudless heaven at noon-day — as though 
it had sprung from the depths of the sea suddenly 
in their path before them. No note of prepara- 
tion — no idea of any such contingency, probably 
— but all at once the stern, quick alarm, and the 
burst of the smoke, followed by the sheeted name ! 

My hearers, property, friends, our own lives 
are thus liable to be lost. The ordinary circum- 
stances of security possess no guarantee of con- 
9 tinued safety. All things earthly are frail and 
unstable. Joy may be followed the next moment 
by sorrow — health by sickness — life by death. 
Let us remember this. " Man cometh forth like 
a flower," says Job, " and is cut down ; he neeth 
also as a shadow, and continueth not." It is not 
wisdom to hide these facts from ourselves — to 
strive to forget them. It is true, we may not be 
called upon to leave existence in this way ; but 
we are liable. We should feel that earth is not 
our end and our eternal abiding-place, and we 
should act accordingly. We throw ourselves into 



64 



DISCOURSES. 



the absorbing pursuits of life ; we mingle with 
and engage in its busy actions, and we forget that 
suddenly, we may be called away from these pur- 
suits and actions. But if we look upon human 
life and its objects aright ; if we arm ourselves 
with a right preparation for whatever may occur, 
then, m one sense, whatever may occur will not 
take us by surprise. The bosom of the sun-lit 
waters is in a moment ruffled, and broken, and 
•darkened by the storm. The calm, blue face of 
the sky is soon veiled with murky and tempest- 
breathing clouds. So the waters of human hap- 
piness, that seemed to mirror images of everlast- 
ing joy and beauty, are, in a moment, broken and 
darkened, and lashed into sorrow. So the calm • 
sky of prosperity and peace is shadowed by 
clouds and swept by tempests. I know that the » 
point which I am now urging is trite and well 
known ; but, remember, it is also true. Its truth 
has been signally taught us from the flames of 
the burning Lexington. Let us not depend too 
much upon earthly things. Let us not calculate 
too much upon present possession — even to life 
itself. Let us ever be watchful, and be prepared 
for whatever may come ! 

III. Finally : I would make our topic the 
foundation for the remark, that religion is the 



BURNING OF THE LEXINGTON. 65 

only principle that can prepare us for. and assist 
us amid, the most trying and dreadful circum- 
stances. What were all other possessions at that 
terrific crisis upon which our thoughts have been 
dwelling ? Could man do them any good ? Lo I 
the harbors were closed, and the means of assist- 
ance locked in by ribs of solid ice ; and in sight 
of that flaming signal of distress, in hearing of 
those shouts and groans of agony, man stood 
baulked, impotent and aghast. Could ingenuity 
and reason avail them ? They could build no 
bridge across that ocean waste, and the ordinary 
preservatives and pTolongers of life were ren- 
dered useless by the relentless cold of the winter 
wind and the winter flood ! Could wealth advan- 
tage them ? They strewed the worthless coin 
upon the deck, and trampled it beneath their feet, 
like dust and ashes ; seizing with frantic haste 
the vessels in which it had been so carefully 
packed, to aid in quenching the raging flames ! 
Could human strength avail them ? It might 
wrench away the smouldering beams, it might 
twine the cord round the floating bales — but it 
could not overcome the fearful elements ! Could 
human love rescue them ? They laid not then 
upon the downy couch, with the soft hands of 
friends to minister to them, and with the healing 
medicine for their lips. Their bed was upon the 
6* 



66 



DISCOURSES. 



icy deep, and though affection might wreathe its 
arms around the loved object, and ward off 
awhile the flame and the cold* yet down it went* 
at last, with that loved object^ heart to heart, and 
both pulseless, cold, and still ! 

But there was one principle that could soothe 
and aid even there— that could walk those billow^ 
like Jesus ; and though it did not stay the de- 
vouring and tumultuous elements, could say to 
the troubled soul, " Peace, peace, be still ! "— » 
could resign- the perishing to their lot~could 
check the tears that froze as they fell— could bid 
the departing spirit look calmly through the night 
and the cloud, through the flame and the flood, 
as passages to an immortal home, where are no 
pain, nor sorrow, nor death and that principle 
was Religion* How many did it thus soothe 
amid those stunning and overwhelming waves, 
flashing upon their terror and their darkness, a 
beacon from the Angel-land— breathing, through 
the tumult of their mortal struggle, sweet music 
from chords that are strung in heaven ? 

Whose was this joy then, we know not; but 
this we know, that it is a principle adapted to all 
our circumstances, and one which we should all 
possess. It is sure— it is triumphant. It is that 
preparation which we all need, and of which I 
spoke under the last head. I know of nothing 



STONING OF THE LEXINGTON. 



67 



^ise that I can recommend, that will enable us to 
meet the contingencies, the certainties of life, 
t know of nothing which I can present with so 
much confidence to those afflicted ones who 
mourn this sad event, " and will not be com- 
forted "—to those who are aflicted with any of 
life's ills, under any circumstances. Amid the 
fiercest tempest, through the darkest cloud, it 
streams, a ray of unfailing sunshine, from the 
throne of the Eternal, brightening around the 
path of the weary pilgrim, and filling his inner- 
most soul with peace, with promise and. with joy. 
Then, treasures may take their flight, but he has 
laid up treasures above. Then, friends may pass 
away, but an ever-present Friend is with him, 
and he hopes to meet those others again. Then, 
life may be called for, but his last hour, be it 
where it may, is lighted with triumph, and he 
is ready to go, and he leans and dies on the 
bosom of Jesus, 

We, in cur frailty and finite comprehension, 
will not presume to stand up and 'question in this 
matter. Darkness has been arcund the Throne, 
but we will believe that a wise purpose moves 
behind the clcud. Yes ! we will believe that 
healing shall follow these stripes ; that good shall 
spring from this affliction and these ashes ; yea, 
that immortal hope and joy shall rise, all beam- 



68 



DISCOURSES. 



ing, from the cold depths of the ocean sepul- 
chre ! 

But to yon, my hearers, I recommend this prin- 
ciple of religion— the best guide through life, the 
best aid and support in death. May its consola- 
tion and its power be yours ! Then, whether 
you pass from existence by the flame or the flood, 
as did the sufferers of the Lexington, or from the 
pillow of the couch of home—you will pass in 
triumph and in joy. With the glare and the 
tumult of this dread catastrophe vividly before 
you, arm yourselves with an invulnerable pan- 
oply. Lay hold of the principle of religion, 1 
beseech you. Establish it in the depths of you? 
souls I 



DISCOURSE IV. 



THE CHRISTIAN DISPOSITION. 

Luke xviii. 16.— Suffer little children to come unto me, 
and forbid them not : for of such is the kingdom of God. 

It is one of the peculiar traits of the religion 
of Jesus Christ, that it is adapted to all classes 
and conditions of men. It has truths that are 
fitted to the capacities of the little child, when it 
first begins to exercise its faculties of thought, 
and opens it eyes intelligently upon the hills and 
valleys and waters of the world in which it is 
placed. But as that child advances in years, 
and grows into the early summer of its life, it 
may take the Book and open upon these same 
truths, and still it will find that they are fitted 
to its condition, and that they satisfy its indefinite 
longings ; and as he glides into maturity, and 
his mental powers become strong, and he begins 
to grasp at speculation and to battle with doubt, 
to exercise reason like a skilful weapon, and to 
use imagination like a well-trained gift — as he 
sits down in all the pride of philosophy, with a 
mind that is stored with riches of knowledge 
which it has gathered from ocean, earth, and 



70 



DISCOURSES. 



air — as he sits down, I say, in all the vigor and 
fulness of a well-trained and polished intellect^ 
and opens the Bible at the places where his child- 
ish fingers used to linger among the leaves, and 
where his young eyes were arrested and his 
young spirit taught — he will find that these same 
truths are still adapted to his condition — that 
they tax to the full his mental energies, that they 
transcend the purest of his ideas of the beautiful, 
the good, and the tree, and fill, as no other teach- 
ings can fill, the infinite aspirations of his soul. 
And so, when he grows old, when the dreams of 
fancy fade away, and the hand of age is laid 
sternly upon him, and the blossoms of life's 
spring-time, and the promise of its summer, and 
the ripe fruit of its early autumn lie in his path 
no more — when he begins to look around for 
something beside his own proud confidence of 
strength to lean upon, and wants a voice to 
speak soothingly and cheeringly to his drooping 
spirit, he shall take up that old, worn Bible, he 
shall turn over to the passages that he read by 
the light of life's sunshine, and,, as tear follows 
tear down his rugged cheek, he shall read on — 
and he shall find that these same truths are 
enough for him still — that they are just what he 
needs — that the light they shed as from the 
eternal world tinges the dark clouds of memory 



THE CHRISTIAN DISPOSITION. 



71 



with the hues of promise, and that while earthly 
joys have withered, these have a power to strew 
fresh blossoms on the pathway to the grave. 

And not only is the Gospel adapted to man as 
an individual, in the various stages of his exist- 
ence — but also to mankind in its various classes 
of high and low, rich and poor, ignorant and 
learned. You shall take this Bible to the untu- 
tored son of the forest, and read him some of the 
simple and precious truths that fell from the lips 
of Jesus, and he will understand you — a gleam 
will break athwart the dark conceptions of his 
superstitious mind, and he will have glimpses of 
the same bright revelations that glide before the 
rapt vision of the advanced and spiritual Chris- 
tian. The Gospel is a system that found among 
its earliest supporters the poor, the lowly, and 
the oppressed of this world. And it is peculiarly 
the poor man's religion to this day. It is his 
solace in all his cares, it lightens his labor, it 
comforts his afflictions. He reads it by his cot- 
tage-door, when the toil of the day is over, and 
he forgets the bitterness and the deprivations of 
his poverty — he binds its precepts upon his heart, 
and goes forth bravely to battle with the world 
and to bear his lot. But admirably adapted to 
the poor and the obscure as it is, it has been sent 
also for the rich, and it is adapted to him likewise. 



72 



DISCOURSES. 



He shall learn from it how to lay up his treasures 
in heaven, and how to dispose of his earthly 
wealth, and how to become poor in spirit for 
Christ's sake ; and even if he be a king, he may 
retire from the cares of state, to ponder with a re- 
freshed spirit upon its sacred pages, and, like the 
pious David, he may lay aside his diadem, to take 
up the harp of devotion, and to find some of his 
sweetest moments those in which he is employed 
in making music with its strings. 

So, to all classes and conditions of men you 
may take the Gospel, the pure, simple Gospel, 
and they will receive it gladly — they will com- 
prehend a portion, at least, of its great truths ; 
they will be enabled to take these seeds and 
plant them in their hearts ; and if they are 
watered by dews of divine grace — by holy rain 
from heaven — and warmed by the sunshine from 
above, they will spring up and ripen in a pre- 
cious harvest. 

The circumstances of our text are beautiful 
and affecting. Some had brought unto our Sa- 
vior little children, in order that he might touch 
them. The disciples saw this, and rebuked 
them ; the motive for doing which is not ex- 
plained. But our Lord did not rebuke them. 
He called them unto him, and said — " Suffer little 
children to come unto me, and forbid them not 



THE CHRISTIAN DISPOSITION. 



73 



for of such is the kingdom of God.'*' In another 
place we are told that " he took them up in his 
arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed 
them." This Great Teacher from God — who 
had come to establish a kingdom wider than 
any of earth's empires, and that was to endure 
forever — who taught a wisdom loftier and mightier 
than any of the schools — whose days were em- 
ployed in incessant labor, in wonderful works — 
healing the sick, restoring the maimed, raising 
the dead — whose precepts were made to bear 
upon the souls of men, and who read their very 
thoughts — who was to toil, to suffer, and to die — 
yea ! who was the express Image of God's Per- 
son — whose advent prophets and bards had fore- 
told, and angels ushered in, and whose shoe's 
latchet the Preacher of the wilderness declared 
himself not worthy to unloose ; — this Great 
Teacher, I say, in the midst of his glorious and 
wondrous work, with all his honor and his dig- 
nity and his power — stooped to notice little 
children — took them in his arms, laid his hand 
upon their heads, and blessed them. Let every 
little child hear this, — that Jesus of Nazareth 
of whom you have often heard, who was so good 
so kind, so great, when he was upon earth, no 
only labored and prayed for you, and died upon 
the cross — but he took little children, like you 
7 



74 



DISCOURSES. 



in his arms, and laid his gentle hand upon their 
heads, and blessed them. You will love this 
Jesus, you will read his words, you will imitate 
his life, my young friends, will you not ? 

And I repeat, my hearers, this was a beautiful 
and affecting circumstance. Christ had just been 
rebuking the sentiment of spiritual pride. He 
had illustrated his doctrine by the parable of two 
men who went up into the temple to pray : the 
one a Pharisee, and the other a publican. The 
one enumerated his acts of supposed righteous- 
ness ; the other stood afar off, with downcast 
eyes, smiting his breast, and crying — " God be 
merciful to me a sinner." And there, then, was 
the rebuked yet haughty Pharisee, thronging 
around him, and peering out at him with malig- 
nant countenance here and there through the 
crowd — here the curious people, stirred by various 
emotions, yet all pressing to catch a glimpse and 
to hear the words of this extraordinary Teacher. 
There stood the respectful and humble disciples, 
drinking in with glad hearts his gracious pre- 
cepts — when, turning from this subject, that so 
well illustrated the internal purity and spiritual 
requirements of his religion, he took these little 
children in his arms, and, blessing them, made 
this the occasion of exhibiting another trait of 
that Gospel which he came to proclaim. He 



THE CHRISTIAN DISPOSITION. 



75 



showed them how comprehensive, how large it 
was — that it- welcomed not only the haughty 
Pharisee, the learned scribe, the mature man, but 
even the little child — that the Savior had a hand 
and a voice for them likewise. And, perchance, 
that kind, that meek and sorrowful countenance, 
in the presence of that gazing multitude, in the 
face of the sneering Pharisee, beamed with a 
smile, and his heart yearned with tender sym- 
pathy, as he turned away from the callous looks 
of the man of the world — from the proud, unmelt- 
ing lineaments of the Rabbi and the philosopher, 
and sought the open and innocent features of 
childhood. And he exclaimed — " Suffer little 
children to come unto me, and forbid them not : 
for of such is the kingdom of God." 

Yes, as we have already suggested, "the Gospel 
is adapted to childhood also. It is not alone for 
the acting and tempest-tossed man. It is not 
alone for the shadowed pathway of old age. It 
is for him whose feet have just begun to press the 
threshold of action. It comes to you, little chil- 
dren, it takes you with a gentle hand, and will 
lead you, if you will, as your father and your 
mother are not able to lead you, through the 
thorny maze that opens before you. It speaks 
to you with a soft, kind voice, and says, " My 
son, my daughter, give me thine heart" u Re- 



76 



DISCOURSES* 



member now thy Creator, in the days of thy 
youth." Little children, I ask you again, will 
you study this book that tells you of this 
Jesus ? Will you do as he commands ? If so, 
you will be happy, and pure, and good. You 
must, if you live, go out, by-and-by, and mingle 
among men. You will need something to tell 
you how to act. You will find that these things 
that look so bright and beautiful to you now, will 
not, cannot, make you as happy as you will wish ; 
and you will find, if you do as the Savior has 
commanded, that you will then be happy — that 
you will then know how to act. Oh ! come, 
then, to Christ. Come to the Being who has 
said, " Suffer little children to come unto me, and 
forbid them not : for of such is the kingdom of 
God." Though your father and your mother 
may not be with you in every place, to protect 
and guide you, and to give you that which is good 
for you ; yet God is able to do this, and more, 
far more than they can do for you. Obey God 
then. Strive to act like Christ ; and, again I say 
to you, you will be good and happy, and your 
Heavenly Father will bless you. 

But, to leave this topic, my hearers, I would 
direct your attention to the latter clause of the 
text: " For of such is the kingdom of God." 
This is a great and important truth. The deni- 



THE CHRISTIAN DISPOSITION. 77 

^ens of the kingdom of God are like little chil- 
dren. This is the effect of the religion of Jesus 
Christ ; it takes the haughtiest and the loftiest of 
men, and^melts their hearts, and purifies their 
vision, and makes them as dear little children. 

There is a beautiful simplicity in childhood. 
There is a gushing and sincere love, an earnest 
and artless truth, an openness and frankness of 
spirit, all unworn and unhardened by attrition and 
collision with the rough edges, and with the pol- 
ished, flinty formalities of the world. Who that 
has gazed upon the working brow, the restless, 
fevered eye, the studied, artificial lineaments of 
the man, can realize that that was once the face 
of a little child — alternately shadowed and lighted 
by tears and smiles, like the heaven of an April 
day, and with tears and smiles that spring from 
the heart too ? That was once the face of a little 
child, reflecting sincere emotions, rejoicing in the 
sunshine and the flowers of the present, without 
a sigh for the past, or a care for the future — with 
no dark plots, no cunning intrigues, no heartless 
schooling of the features to suit circumstances — 
all fresh, free, joyous ! Oh ! what a change. 
Yes, a change. The countenance but mirrors the 
phases of the soul, and the soul has changed. 
That has frown older, and world-thoughts have 
crept in, and the seeds of deep and strong passions 



7S 



DISCOURSES. 



have been planted there— and this is the result* 
Oh ! who that travels the beaten and dusty high* 
ways of manhood, and toils and schemes and 
deals with the world, who lays down, an aching 
head upon his pillow at night, and rises with rest- 
less energy to go out and battle again in the 
morning— Oh ! who that looks in and reads his 
heart, and sees the lines that care and sin and 
violent passion have traced there with their with- 
ered fingers y who, when he feels and sees all this, 
does not sometimes wish that he were a child 
again, with his guileless laugh and his simple 
truth— with * his free air and his flowers— with 
his sweet sleep and his unsuspicious and trusting 
disposition ? It may not be ; it is our duty— nay, 
our joy, to go forward ; hut the purity and the 
gladness of childhood will come back upon us 
with their gentle memories, and, alas ! it is often 
that we never experience such purity and glad- 
ness in all the triumphs of our after years. 

But what does this mean— we are to become 
as little children in order to be fit for the king- 
dom of God ? and we cannot throw off the weight 
of years ; we cannot break the meshes of care 
and interest, and the strong and pressing bonds 
of duty, and go back to our young and sunny 
days. How are we to be as little children ? My 
hearers* we are te be as little children in our dis* 



THE CHRISTIAN DISPOSITION. 



79 



positions. We are to cultivate the confidence, the 
simplicity, the humility and the truth of children, 
Childlike is precisely the definition of the chris- 
tian disposition. It takes its disciples from the 
bustle and forms and warfare of life, and sets them 
down at the feet of Jesus, as little children, And 
of what other religion— of what philosophy — can 
this be said — that its great object is to make men 
gentle and childlike in their dispositions ? We 
know of none. It is a peculiarity of the Gospel. 

But you will understand here what this means, 
that the kingdom of heaven is occupied, is pos- 
sessed by those who are like little children. We 
are not to suppose that they are to be like little 
children in regard to active life. We are not to 
throw by the duties and the occupations of man- 
hood, nor the relations and associations that 
spring from these. Man is made to be an active 
being, and is required to put forth his strongest 
energies, and to press on with the toils and the 
duties of existence. He cannot go back to the 
calm and careless enjoyments of childhood — he 
cannot throw by the restraints of business and 
the requirements of society— and it is well for 
him that he cannot. It is well for his spiritual 
nature that he cannot. The soul is invigorated 
and advanced and improved in the active scenes 
in which he is called to mingle, and the occur* 



80 



DISCOURSES. 



rences that chequer the line of this busy life draw 
out faculties and nourish sentiments within that 
otherwise would throb feebly, or lie dormant* 
We are to be denizens of the kingdom of God, 
and yet are to live on this earth. We are to walk 
its by-ways and its streets— -to jostle in the eager 
crowd — to exchange the salutations of brethren — 
to sympathize and to associate with our fellow* 
men— to perform our allotted labors ; and yet to 
keep a calm look beyond— to raise our eyes ever 
and anon to the crystal gates of the Paradise 
above us — to step aside and get upon some height 
above the troubled and feverish atmosphere of 
the world, where we may hold communion with 
higher principles, and have our spirits refreshed 
by "breezes from the hills of heaven." So, we 
are not to be as little children in regard to the 
active scenes and duties of life— in throwing by 
care and business, and seeking only present plea- 
sures and present ends. We are to be like chil 
dren in our abstinence from the sinful pursuits 
and entertainments of life— in our freedom from 
its dark, plotting, and ambitious schemes of evil, 
and subtle and selfish striving for mere individual 
gain. In this way we are to be as little children. 
So let us ever be ! 

Again : We are not to suppose that, in order to 
a meetness for the kingdom of God, we are to be 



THE CHRISTIAN DISPOSITION. 



SI 



ignorant, like little children. I doubt not, my 
hearers, there have been many ignorant men who 
have been very good men, and that there have 
been many learned men who have been very 
proud and sinful men. But I have yet to learn 
that ignorance is an essential quality of the chris- 
tian character — that it makes any person pecu- 
liarly meet for the kingdom of God, or that any 
person is good because he is ignorant. No, these 
faculties that we have, so high and soaring in 
their nature, are given us to be used — to be exer- 
cised — and not to be dwarfed and fettered. There 
can be no argument gathered here from the fact 
that the apostles were ignorant and unlearned men. 
They might have been unskilled in the polished 
lore of the schools — but it is to be remembered 
that, leaving out of view the information and intel- 
ligence which they may have possessed naturally, 
they were endowed with special spiritual com- 
munications, and were gifted with a wisdom and 
an eloquence divine. These extraordinary gifts 
no earthly member of God's kingdom now pos- 
sesses, and, therefore, his ignorance places him in 
a far different position from that in which the 
Galilean fishermen were placed. No — ignorance 
is no quality of the christian character. On the 
contrary, it is too often the parent and the nurse 
of superstition, uncharitable ness 3 error, and spirit- 



82 



DISCOURSES. 



ual pride. So far is it from being wrong to culti- 
vate the intellect and to store it with knowledge, 
that we hold it to be the binding duty of the dis- 
ciple of Jesus Christ to improve and enlarge his 
intellectual faculties. He sees more of God with 
every advance he makes. He learns how to 
adore and to glorify him more. He gets above the 
earth, and has a wider and more splendid view, 
and truth after truth comes gliding in upon his 
vision — each like a new, bright world — that, down 
in the valleys and low places, he had never seen. 
He is the very one, of all others, who should study 
and learn ; for he perceives the true end of know- 
ledge, and will use his acquirements aright. Not 
only do the mental and moral powers go together 
and aid each other in this world, but will they not 
go hand in hand through the ages of eternity ? 
This discovering new objects of wonder, that 
tuning the heart to praise — this soaring aloft in 
other realms, and gathering wisdom from the 
shores of other worlds, that bowing down in 
worship at every new evidence of divine power, 
and acknowledging with a deeper sentiment that 
" the Lord God omnipotent reigneth." The 
moral and the intellectual faculties— they will 
live forever in the essences of our being. The 
soul will mount by them, as with wings, from 
world to world — will drink in the floods of beauty 



THE CHRISTIAN DISPOSITION. 



83 



that roll in distant spheres of this vast universe — 
will traverse the illimitable fields of immortality 
or shine like a star before the throne of God. 
If this is to be so, the intellectual faculty is not to 
be neglected — nay, it cannot be without injury to 
the moral power. Those gifted spirits that stand 
nearest the gates of heaven — that have the clearest 
view of the glory of the future — have been men of 
mighty intellects — of soaring and curious minds. 

But, you say, this thirst for knowledge has led 
men to be rash and proud — to contemn religion, 
and to worship the idols that their haughty 
knowledge has set up within their own souls. 
True, my hearers, this may be the case ; but then 
these evils did not flow from an over-cultivation 
of the intellect, but from too little attention to the 
heart. Here lies the evil. The intellect is made 
the all. All the resources of mental energy are 
drawn upon to aid that, and hence the well- 
springs in the depths of the spirit become neglect- 
ed, and choked up, and dried ; and the passions, 
all untamed, rankle and grow wild in the breast 
of the clearest reason and the brightest imagina- 
tion. But let them go together — the moral and 
the intellectual powers ; let a man cultivate a 
refined taste, a strong understanding, a well-stored 
memory, a penetrating reason ; and then let him 
carry a devout, a warm, a sympathizing heart 



84 



DISCOURSES. 



beneath it all — the source of his emotions and the 
coloring of his thoughts— and you will see a true 
man ; yea, a man who, if he act consistently, will 
be as a little child in the kingdom of God. I 
doubt, after all, if ever a man of true intellectual 
cultivation was an atheist. I doubt if he ever 
entered into a career of vice and sin without feel- 
ing compunction and bitter remorse at his heart 
— without being more fully aware that he was 
doing wrong — -and with a keener sensibility, too, 
than the ignorant vicious man. Atheism is but 
the result of a shallow philosophy ; you will 
find those whom it claims as its master-spirits, 
when closely pushed, sheltering under some 
bright and mystic subterfuge — some Pantheistic 
or sceptical system. As Lord Bacon expresses the 
idea — a smattering of knowledge, a little step 
beyond the common limits of investigation, where 
new and wonderful objects begin to burst upon 
the vision and to overawe and dazzle it, may 
cause a man to be an atheist ; but progress in that 
path — a few steps farther — and he acknowledges 
God and religion once more. The mightiest 
minds have been no enemies to religion. This 
same Lord Bacon — the profound master, the 
inductive philosopher — was a believer in God and 
religion ; so was Newton, standing on the high 
summit of earthly wisdom, and reading the stars. 



THE CHRISTIAN DISPOSITION. 



85 



So was Locke — so was rapt and tuneful Milton. 
No, my hearers : you may be an humble, child- 
like, loving follower of Christ, without being 
an ignorant one. This we do not take to be the 
meaning of our Savior, when he says — " Suffer 
little children to come unto me, and forbid them 
not: for of such is the kingdom of God." 

Once more : We are not to infer that, in order 
to be as little. children, we are to be unmanly, or 
wanting in energy and courage. Our simplicity is 
not to be a superficial, ignorant simplicity, which 
would make us appear in the odious sense of the 
term — childish. " Be ye wise as serpents, and 
harmless as doves," was a certain injunction. If 
we are to go forth into the world, as sheep among 
wolves, we are to see to it that we are not preyed 
upon by those wolves, to our own injury and the 
injury of those connected with us. The Christian 
is not to be a person devoid of all shrewdness and 
prudence. He is to wear defensive armor, as he 
often comes in contact with offensive weapons. 
He is not to be over-credulous, unsuspecting, 
unsophisticated. This would make him a weak 
and unstable character, rather than a dauntless 
soldier of the Cross. Xeither is he to be a timid, 
fearful character — he is to be a man of courage, 
nay, even of daring when occasion requires. He 
is to be firm, manly, strong and brave. Thus is 
8 



86 



DISCOURSES. 



he to be in his warfare with sin— in his striving 
with difficulties — in his self-denial and his reso- 
lutions. Some of the shrewdest, firmest, boldest 
men have been Christians — have set their feet 
upon a rock, and drawn their blades, and stood up 
and contended against a host. I can see no incon- 
sistency between such a character and the child- 
like disposition that the text describes. Against 
sin, against evil, they are thus to*be arrayed — 
this is their outward panoply — the armor necessa- 
ry for them in their conflicts ; but the disposition, 
the heart, is, at the same time, meek and mild — 
meek and mild whenever meekness and mildness 
are virtues — open to sympathy — open to the voice 
of truth, of God — trusting, confiding, following 
where He directs or leads. In this way are they 
as children — in this way may it be said — " of 
such is the kingdom of God." 

You will understand now the meaning of 
Christ, when he says — " Suffer little children to 
come unto me, and forbid them not : for of such 
is the kingdom of God." In another place, he 
says that we are to receive the kingdom of God 
as little children. We are to come to Christ, to 
believe, to trust, to follow and submit. We are 
to throw by the iron panoply of our pride- — we 
are to soften our stern and callous hearts, and 
open them to gentle and loving dispositions. 



THE CHRISTIAN DISPOSITION. 



S7 



This it is to be " born again." It is to become in 
our feelings towards God and religious duty as lit- 
tle children. We are to go back in spirit and com- 
mune once more with sinless, guileless thoughts, 
We are to throw by our schemes of mere earthly 
ambition, earthly gain, earthly pleasure ; and 
come and sit at the feet of Jesus, and hear his 
gracious words, and implicitly believe and obey 
them. We are to look upon all men as our 
brethren, and to sympathize earnestly with them 
— to love them as children love one another, and 
to feel that we are not the only beings on this 
wide earth. 

It is a sweet thought, too, that such is the dis- 
position of the dwellers of heaven, and will be 
forever. The pure and sinless angels that wor- 
ship before God's throne — that dwell in happy 
bands, in green bowers, by clear streams of Para- 
dise — are not, after all, like the robed philoso- 
phers, the haughty monarchs, the laurelled great- 
men of earth. ~So, they are like little children. 
Their pure thoughts are mirrored in their faces 
as they bend above their lyres, and all there is 
innocence, and love, and peace — like the scenes 
that are imaged in the waters at their feet. And 
so is it and will it be with the just made perfect. 
When the toil-worn pilgrim of earth shall lay 
by his staff and his dusty sandals at the door of 



88 



DISCOURSES. 



the grave, he goes through its portals to be as a 
little child. When the warrior for righteousness 
breaks his sword and puts off his armor forever, 
and takes his crown and his palm, he will be as 
a little child. When the suffering and the weary 
go up to rest from their labors, they will sit at 
the feet of Jesus, and be as little children. 

Cultivate, I beseech you, this childlike dispo- 
sition. Throw by these heavy sins, these gross 
passions, these formal devices ; and come, pen- 
itent, humble, loving, trusting, to the foot of the 
throne. Do this now. Cherish this childlike 
spirit ever. And as little children may we meet 
and sit together in heavenly places in Christ 
Jesus, throughout eternal ages. 



DISCOURSE V. 



THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TONGUE. 

James iii. S. — But the tongue can no man tame; it is an 
tinruly evil, full of deadly poison. 

One of the richest gifts that we enjoy is that 
of speech — one of the noblest instruments that 
plays in the full-choired harmony of the uni- 
verse, is the human voice. Sweeping in its 
power of utterance, from the softest cadence to 
the loudest note, it has a perfect mastery over every 
chord of sentiment and passion. Without it, the 
communications of mighty thought would be un- 
certain and confused, the treasures of each intel- 
lect would be buried in itself, and wisdom would 
have not even the marble lips of an oracle to give 
it utterance. Without it, the charm of social life 
would be broken, the sympathies and affections 
would lose their most powerful agent, and men 
would exist as so many statues, animated and 
expressive, it is true, but still babbling and tune- 
less. The speech and persuasion of love — the 
kind words of friendship — the song that the 
mother breathes over the cradle-bed — the prayer 
that the worshipper sends up from the family 
8* 



90 



DISCOURSES. 



altar ; all the harmonies of associated life, of 
human fellowship, would be wanting, and there 
be nothing in their stead but sad, unnatural si- 
lence, or moans and murmurs, the echoes of 
restless waves of thought and emotion, ebbing 
and beating without a vent, far down in the 
troubled breast* The noblest expressions, too* 
of the great soul would be lost. Deep and warm 
are its aspirations— it catches flame and burns in 
its upward flight ; but without the power of gush- 
ing forth in words, it would muse with its own 
vast thoughts, and kindle and consume to ashes 
upon the quenchless coals within. Poetry would 
not pour its floods of life and light—- patriotism 
would never lift its thrilling voice— eloquence 
would be dumb as the tomb-— love devoid of its 
richest instrument—religion without its sweetest 
privileges and its most efficient means— if, with 
all our gifts and all our powers, we had not the 
gift of speech, the power of utterance. 

From what has been said, my friends, I would 
have you learn the value of speech— its impor* 
tance and its power. But I would particularly 
direct your attention at this time to the fact, that, 
while the tongue is thus necessary and useful for 
the enjoyment and the good of life, it is equally 
capable of being an instrument of evil— the most 
powerful, perhaps, in human possession. The 



THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TONGUE. 91 



chapter from which we have taken our text is 
full and impressive upon this subject. It speaks 
of the great influence of the tongue, and, while 
it acknowledges it to be a little member of the 
human body, it refers to that small piece of iron 
called the bit, with which we master one of the 
fleetest and most powerful animals — it refers to 
that comparatively insignificant portion of a ves- 
sel, the helm, by which the vast ship is swayed 
about and guided by the steersman, amid fierce 
winds and surging seas ; and then, bringing these 
comparisons to bear upon the point, it says— 
" Even so the tongue is a little member, and 
bcasteth great things. Behold how great a mat- 
te: a little fire kindleth ! " Small as it is, in 
comparison to the body of man— like the bit to 
the horse, the helm to the ship— small as it is, the 
Writer says—" The tongue is a fire, a world of 
iniquity : so is the tongue among our members, 
that it defileth the whole body, and setteth on fire 
the course of nature ; and it is set on fire of 
hell." 

These expressions strongly illustrate the evil 
force — the immensely hurtful and destructive 
power of the tongue, when used as the agent of 
a wrong impulse or a bad heart. You will 
agree with me, then, as to the importance of the 
subject upon which we propose treating at this 



92 



DISCOURSES* 



time, when we consider the great power which 
we have in the gift of speech, and our aptness 
and capacity to pervert and abuse that gift. 

It is my intention to select as my topic at this 
time — the government of the tongue ; and, in 
doing so, it will be well, perhaps, to consider the 
text. Construed literally, we should be deprived 
of an important point which we would impress 
upon you, viz., the reformation, by each individ- 
ual, of his or her evil practices in speech ; for it 
says, " the tongue can no man tame /" and if 
we read this absolutely, all arguments for refor- 
mation would seem to be useless, for then the 
taming of the tongue is declared out of all hu- 
man power. But this appears not to be the 
proper rendering of the text ; good commenta- 
tors translate the original Greek so as to give 
this idea— -which we presume to be the correct 
one : — " the tongue of others can no man tame;'* 
•'—you can tame your tongue, your neighbor can 
tame his— each one can tame his or her tongue ; 
but not the tongue of another. It is in this re- 
spect " an unruly evil, full of deadly poison and 
you see, taken in this sense, the truth and force of 
the context — " For every kind of beasts, and of 
birds, and of serpents, and of things in the §ea, is 
tamed, and hath been tamed of mankind : but the 
tongue [of other men] can no man tame." 



THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TONGUE. 93 

And this is most true. You can tame the 
wild notes of the wood-bird into the measured 
harmony of human song — you can play with the 
mane of the trained lion, and sport even with the 
speckled serpent ; but the outbreakings of anoth- 
er's tongue — its scathing fire — its boisterous, 
stormy flood, you cannot stay ; the reformation is 
left entirely to individual will — and each one 
must, individually, carry out the government of 
the tongue. 

I would have each one, then, while I proceed 
to specify some of the evil ways in which the 
tongue is employed, consider for himself or for 
herself, Am I guilty in any of these respects ? and 
if conscience says " yes," I do beseech you to 
resolve from this moment that you will no more 
abuse so noble a faculty as that of speech. Let 
each individual attend to what I have to say. 

I am to mention some of the evil ways in 
which it is very common for the tongue to be 
employed. 

I. And, first, I will specify the great evil of 
slander. There are many, many in community, 
my friends, who can feelingly say of the tongue, 
in this respect — " Truly it is an unruly evil, full 
of deadly poison ;" and who, considering the 
slight and baseless causes which have issued in 



94 



DISCOURSES. 



the loss of sympathy- and the ruin of character, 
can exclaim with anguished hearts — " Behold 
how great a matter a little fire kindleth ! " This 
is a crying evil in society. It has crushed a 
thousand hopes, and stung to the very death 
many a fair and spotless reputation. I would 
have you consider from what small sources this 
dread principle gathers its blackness and its 
venom. They are few, I will believe they are 
very few, who have the fiendish, the vampyre-like 
disposition, to sit down deliberately and mar 
another's fair character, and feed upon that 
which is more vital than his heart's blood. They 
must be few, who can take a stainless reputation, 
that has walked among men respected and 
esteemed, and breathe upon it until it witheis. 
No ; — this is not the way in which slander gene- 
rally operates. It has a mode more sure and 
more deadly than this. To come right out with 
blasting charges, and hurl them in the very fa:e 
of its victim, would be to court scrutiny, and to 
breed an indignant re-action of sentiment that 
would surely detect and destroy. And so it takes 
a deeper and more sinuous course. It begins 
with vague, significant surmise, and small, broken 
hints. It walks cautiously and hidden, like a 
tiger in a jungle, creeping for its prey. It begins 
with whispers ; and such is the state of pubic 



THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TONGUE. 95 



sentiment, my friends, that one of these whispers 
is enough to shadow and becloud the brightest 
character — like a breath upon a looking-glass. 
Sorrow for him concerning whom one of these 
meaning ichispers is circulated. I care not what 
his reputation may be, the vilest minion of the 
streets shall have in one of these whispers enough 
to make men lift their brows as he passes, and 
take his proffered hand suspiciously. But the 
slander begins with whispers. It breaks out all 
at once in words, until anon it becomes a bold, 
direct charge, that the accused, however fair and 
innocent, finds it next to impossible to refute ; for 
it is of such a nature that he is wholly unprepared 
to meet it. It falls upon him as would the astound- 
ing shock of a thunderbolt from a clear sky. But 
the suddenness of the charge constitutes not its 
chief vexation and malignity. He cannot trace 
its author. He lays, as he thinks, his hand upon 
him, and, lo ! like the ghost in Hamlet, when he 
would strike at him — 

1 He is here ! 
He is here ! 
He is gone ! " 

Could he but find the first accuser — the original 
framer and propagator of the injurious report, he 
might stand up boldly and confront him in the 
face of the world. But that accuser cannot be 



96' 



DISCOURSES. 



found. The injured party finds himself in all the 
toils of an evil report-— his character suffering— 
his attempts at explanation misunderstood ; with- 
out one charitable, sympathizing heart, or one 
aiding hand. Now, the fact of the case is, the 
slander, as it has become current in the popular 
mouth, is not what that slander was when it 
started ; and could he but take it up in its worst 
shape, and trace it back, he would find that in its 
original form it was but a small hint— a dim and 
minute germ, from whence has grown by degrees, 
and by transition from man to man, this odious 
and deadly calumny. 

Such is slander. Oh ! my friends, let me 
entreat you to beware of giving it birth or cir- 
culation. I do not believe that one of you would 
deliberately sit down and misrepresent the actions 
or misstate the words of another, but, remember, 
this we have shown is not the common or most 
fatal mode of slander. Remember, it starts with 
the whisper, the suspicious surmise — and, oh ! 
avoid the whisper or the surmise, that issues 
in such dreadful consequences. Yes — I say 
dreadful consequences ; for is not the destruc- 
tion of reputation and of hope a dreadful conse- 
quence ? Is not the forfeiting of friendship, the 
sinking of personal energy and of self-respect in 
cold apathy, or violent despair, a dreadful conse- 
quence ? Is not the deep punishment that visk 



THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TONGUE. 97 



the guilty, falling upon the innocent, conscious 
but helpless in his innocence, a dreadful conse- 
quence ? You would not hurt a hair of your 
neighbor's head, but, oh ! with what a fine and 
vital chord do you deal, when you snap idly the 
most tiny thread of character ! No character ' — 
reputation lost ! — all by the fell blow of slander ! 
How many have suffered in this way ! Young, 
perhaps, in the full vigor of life and hope, a man 
has just started out in the world. A family is 
gathering around him, that looks to him for help. 
The hopes that have been flitting before him, wea- 
ving their tissues in " many-colored spells," have 
begun to take a shape and a reality. The steps 
that will establish him in society, and make cer- 
tain his future prosperity, are right before him 
and but few. All this bright prospect beams upon 
him, when suddenly the whole is marred and lost. 
A stroke is aimed at his character — men look at 
him suspiciously — the very air around him 
becomes tainted with evil reports, and the world 
closes its doors upon him. He retires to his 
home, and there, perhaps, the foul calumny has 
entered before him, and chilled towards him the 
hearts of those who, of all upon earth, he loves 
dearest. But, as is more probably the case, the 
arms of weeping love are thrown around him, too 
feeble to shield him from the keen peltings with- 
9 

| 



DISCOURSES. 



out — little hands are stretched up to him for sup- 
port, that, alas ! can no longer aid them. Those 
connected with him suffer also the deadly attain- 
der, and, perhaps, they are left, like lepers, to 
starve and sicken alone ; while he goes down to 
the grave, or crouches through life with life's very 
essence turned to bitterness, and all his hopes 
withered. Now, could he have traced the stream 
of that calumny, he would have found its issue 
in some light jest or hasty word ; or, perhaps, 
some enemy, not able to bring an open accusa- 
tion, face to face, in his mean revenge and 
cowardly fear, used some agent for his purpose, 
and spit his venomed malice through dirty ken- 
nels and low, unscrupulous instruments, until it 
reached and destroyed its victim. Oh ! beware, 
beware, my friends, of giving the slightest aid to 
calumny. Beware of a slanderous tongue, for 
" it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison." 

This principle is rife in the political operations 
of our day, and I am not disposed to shield any 
party from the charge. Let a candidate be set up 
for some popular office — he may be pure and spot- 
less as the chaste moon, but he surely becomes 
the target for ten thousand arrows. Achilles was 
invulnerable except in his heel. The political 
candidate must be dipped in Styx more thoroughly 
than the son of Thetis, or the unguarded spot in 



THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TONGUE. 



99 



his reputation will become riddled into one gaping 
wfliind. Now I know not by what rule of ethics 
it can be established that morality in politics is 
different from morality in anything else. Men, I 
am persuaded, who would not give currency to a 
calumny against a private citizen, will circulate by 
pen and tongue the most bitter slanders against a 
public candidate. It surely 'is shamefully derog- 
atory to the character of a free and enlightened 
people, to have our elections carried on by the 
bandying of slanderous accusations and contra- 
dictory affidavits. If reason, and the will of the 
people's great heart, and patriotism, and love of 
order and morality, are not strong enough among 
us to secure our well-government and the safety 
of our interests, and to prevent these shameful 
agitations — come, iron-handed Cromwell, and pro- 
rogue our popular assemblies at once ! — come, 
armed Napoleon, and change our institutions for 
the purple, the bayonet, and the throne ! But I 
believe that there is intelligence, and free, gener- 
ous thought, and morality enough among us to 
check this slanderous mode of political warfare, 
and these outbreakings of popular passion. And 
let it be done ! For the honor and the safety of 
our country, let it be done ! In our political con- 
flicts let character ever be as sacred as it is in 
the circle of home, the warehouse, or the mart. 
I will not dwell here upon religious slanders. 



100 



DISCOURSES. 



Suffice it to say, that it is wrong, deeply wrong, 
to deprive your neighbor of his character— to 
hold him up to the suspicion and the reproach of 
community — to excite popular prejudice against 
him, because he differs from you in religious 
opinion. It is as foreign to the spirit of Chris- 
tianity as it is false in morality. Beware what 
names you call your neighbor, or what motives 
and acts you attribute to him, merely in a temper 
of misrepresentation or sectarian prejudice. 

There is one more subject closely connected 
with this topic of slander. I allude to that gos- 
sipping kind of chat well known by the term 
scandal. It is far too common, my friends, to 
make the sayings, the doings, the manners and 
the dress of others, the subjects of scathing criti- 
cism, and severe or light remark. We go to a 
church, and, it would seem, instead of being occu- 
pied with the thoughts and services that should 
engage us there, we are noticing the conduct of 
this one, or the garb and appearance of that ; and 
we retire to comment upon these, instead of reflect- 
ing and resolving upon what we have or might 
have heard. Now, aside from the deep sin of 
this conduct, so far as a disregard of the Sab- 
bath and the sanctuary is concerned, aside from 
this, and it is sin enough ; we commit the wrong 
of employing ourselves in ill-natured remark and 
unjust criticism upon our neighbors. And so is it 



THE GOVERNMENT OF THE fOJfGUE. 101 



when we meet with others in the circles of social 
life, when we pass them in the street, or encoun- 
ter them at the public assembly. It is too com- 
mon to indulge in this free criticism, and this 
unjust, unguarded comment. Now, whenever 
we come together, let it not be to decry and to 
misjudge our neighbors— for in this we often 
deeply wrong them, we foster evil feelings, and 
we are liable to set in motion a train that may 
end in downright slander and positive injury. 

In all the connections of social life, see. that 
you keep a strict guard upon the tongue. See 
that slander does not escape your lips, in any 
degree. You know the fatal effects of this prin- 
ciple. You know the inherent guilt of such a 
course of conduct. Eegard dearly the rights and 
the reputation of others. Eemember that it is for 
you to check yourself, if you have been in any 
way guilty in this matter — and remember that a 
slanderous tongue " is an unruly evil, full of 
deadly poison/'' 

II. Another evil habit which the tongue fre- 
quently maintains, is Profanity, Perhaps there 
is no vice more common than this. Men who 
would shudder at the thought of circulating 
a slander, and fairly sicken at the idea of ut- 
tering a falsehood, will still employ oaths and 
9* 



102 



DISCOURSES. 



curses. Now, I do not know what scale such 
may measure by, but if they take the great moral 
Law, they will find that profanity is no less a sin, 
than calumny or lying. It is useless for us, my 
friends, to blind ourselves to this truth. I am 
not speaking of the opinions of society — I am 
not considering how men regard these things ; 
but I say, weighed and tested by the law of the 
Bible, profanity is as deep a transgression as slan- 
der ok falsehood. When the trumpet-blast rent 
the darkling cloud, and the thunder shook the 
rocks of Sjnai, did not this announcement come 
forth—" Thou shalt not take the name of the 
Lord thy God in vain ; for the Lord will not hold 
him guiltless that taketh his name in vain" ?— 
and what length of habit, what custom of society, 
shall weaken the strong force of this law, or, 
because it is fashionable and used by honorable 
men, make profanity right and sinless ? And did 
not Jesus Christ exhibit the full scope and mean- 
ing of this command, when he said— " Swear not 
at all : neither by heaven ; for it is God's throne : 
neither by the earth ; for it is his footstool : 
neither by Jerusalem ; for it is the city of the 
great King : neither shalt thou swear by thy 
head, because thou canst not make one hair white 
or black ; but let your communication be yea, 
yea; nay, nay: for whatsoever is more than 
these, cometh of evil ? " 
t 



THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TONGUE. 103 



And because you are upright in your dealings 
with your fellow-men, and respected as a citizen, 
can these give you a license to disregard this 
teaching ? 

The law of God, then, the highest and the only 
standard of morality, condemns the habit of pro- 
fane swearing, and no one who does this can be 
guiltless. But if this law did not exist, I would 
ask, what policy, what gain, is there in profanity ? 
Does it beautify language ? Is there anything 
sweet and refined in a discourse interlarded with 
oaths ? Does it strengthen an assertion ? If you 
are an honest man, you will be believed without 
profanity, and if you are not, all your oaths will 
not make you so. Does it give a peculiar force 
and energy to conversation ? That conversation 
must be sadly lacking in the elements of stability 
and consistency that needs to be linked together 
by curses. I cannot, for my part, see the use or 
the wisdom of swearing, even if it were guiltless. 
And yet, my friends, useless, and unwise, and 
sinful as it is, this is a common practice. You 
shall not walk the length of yon street without 
having your ear saluted with oaths, perhaps blas- 
phemies. Hoary old age, tottering on the verge 
of the grave, will call with a passionate voice 
upon the dread name of its Maker ; and stammer- 
ing children will make oath by their Father is. 



104 



DISCOURSES, 



Heaven, before they have learned to know Him— « 
catching their curses from paternal lips. 

Surely, surely this should not be. I beseech 
you, seriously consider the matter. Are you in 
the habit of profane swearing ? Why do you do 
so ? Do you say you have fallen into the prac- 
tice, and long habit has so strengthened it that 
you find it difficult to break off, even when you 
would? I know that custom does much, and 
even when we loathe and abhor the habit into 
which we have fallen, we find it ever and anon 
breaking in upon our better resolutions. And, I 
doubt not, there are those who have become so 
accustomed to profanity, that they frequently, 
perhaps commonly, swear unconsciously. But 
now look at the whole amount of this apology. 
It is just this — we have so long been in the habit 
of committing a sin, that we cannot leave off sin- 
ning. Is this valid ? Grant that you cannot leave 
off to-day, or to-morrow, you can begin to leave 
off, this hour. But the general course, I am 
afraid, is, that those who make this apology use 
it as an excuse for continuing in profanity. 44 We 
cannot break ourselves of swearing, therefore we 
will continue to be profane."' And do you really 
believe this ? Do you believe that you could not 
break from this evil habit of the tongue, if you 
were to try ? Now f if yoB will begin; to try to 



THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TONGUE. 



105 



leave it off, and still find, now and then, this old 
custom slipping through your watch and utter- 
ing itself in an oath, use this apology as the 
reason why you do not immediately and totally 
abandon it — it may be of some force then. But 
if you say that you cannot leave off swearing, 
and never try to leave it off— or if you never do, 
after trial, leave it off — let me tell you, that your 
conscience and the moral law both condemn you, 
and you know it 

My friends, let me appeal to your better feel- 
ings and motives in this matter. Is it right to be 
profane ? Is it right to take the name of that 
mighty Being who rules the universe,, and whose 
glory pervades all existence — is it right to take 
His name, and make it the light word of mockery 
for a jest or a denunciation — to breathe it in 
unholy laughter, above the wine cup, or utter it 
in passionate madness when you are angry ? Is 
it right, say, is it right, to thus lightly treat that 
Father of ours, who gives us all that we enjoy ? — 
to profane His blessed name who does so much 
for us ? You would not suffer it to be done so 
with an earthly parent He that should take the 
name of your father or your mother upon light 
lips — that should bandy it irreverently in the 
social circle or the street — that should use it in 
the lightest conversation and the lowest jests — - 



206 



DISCOURSES. 



you would call to an account for his insults, and 
would treat with indignation. But here is your 
Father in heaven— his name is thus used and 
lightly treated, and passed in profanity from lip 
to lip — and you give no rebuke. Give no rebuke ! 
Nay, you join in the evil. You also profane his 
name, without scruple and without compunction. 
Is this right ? No ! your conscience and your 
heart answer, " No ! " Let me entreat you, then, 
to yield now to this conviction. Resolve that 
from this moment you will leave off profanity. 
And if you find it breaking in upon you, do 
not cease to strive against it. Subdue this evil 
practice of the tongue. It is useless, unwise, 
ungrateful, sinful. Let each one ask himself— 
" Am I guilty in this matter ? " — " Have I ever 
profaned my Father's holy name ? " — and as his 
conscience answers, so let him act. 

I would that this sin might be stayed in com- 
munity. It is an abuse of the faculty of speech. 
It mars conversation — shocks piety — begets light- 
ness and indifference — is foolish and sinful. This 
is an evil each one must correct for himself — an 
evil that should be checked at once — " an unruly 
evil, full of deadly poison." 

III. I will mention one more evil way in 
which the tongue is often employed — Falsehood, 



THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TONGUE. 107 



This is, perhaps, not so common a vice as the 
last, because the conventional standard of honor 
denounces it, and the known liar loses caste in 
the most worldly society. Yet, possibly, it is 
more prevalent and deeper seated than many 
are apt to imagine. Let us ask and answer a 
plain question. What is a falsehood ? It is any- 
thing signified with the intent to deceive. Now, 
this is an easy test to try by. You will see that it 
matters not what form of words you use — it mat- 
ters not that you have avoided just this or that 
expression, or shuffled off a plain declaration by 
some wretched quibble or pun — all this matters 
not ; you have only this question to ask, and 
abide by the response of conscience — Did I tell 
this with an intent to deceive ? " On the other 
hand, it is possible that many prescribe to them- 
selves too nice bounds in this matter. When they 
do so, they will be very apt to escape from the 
extreme rigor of the rule which they have laid 
upon themselves, by these very shifts and quibbles 
of which we have spoken. We cannot suppose 
that every figure of speech is a falsehood. We 
cannot call every metaphor or hyperbole a lie. 
If we do, we shall convict even the Bible itself of 
untruth. But we must avoid the utterance of 
anything calculated to deceive, or the habit of 
lightly exaggerating or untruly describing may 



103' 



t 

DISCOURSES'. 



gradually beget in us a want of the clear dis- 
tinction of truth from falsehood, and an aptitude 
to lessen the value of the one and disregard the 
heinousness of the other. 

I am not going here into subtle casuistry 
about truth and falsehood. I am not going to 
discuss the morality of Paley, or the strictness 
of Opie. I wish to lay down a broad rule of con- 
duct in this matter T that I would have every one 
adopt as an immutable principle, never to be 
swerved from. And that is — always regard truth 
in such a manner, as that you shall despise false- 
hood ; and make it your glory to cling to open, 
frank, sincere communication with your fellow- 
men. No shuffling, no creeping around the mat- 
ter, no quieting conscience with sophistical ano- 
dynes, and the dangerous maxim — " the end 
justifies the means." 

There may be, I must confess, instances con- 
jured up in supposition, when the strictly truth- 
loving man would be induced to say, " How shall 
I act ? shall I commit a greater evil in order to 
avoid a less 2 " But, my friends, remember this one 
thing — these instances are extremely, extremely 
rare. At such a time, reflect — ask for aid of Him 
who giveth liberally and upbraideth not ; and 
may you be taught and guided. 

But we are speaking of the usual communica- 



THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TONGUE, 109 

lions of life. Is not truth often sacrificed in 
these by many who would shrink from telling 
what they call an open lie, and who would feel 
highly indignant at the charge of falsehood ? 
For my part, my friends, I am not able to discern 
that wide difference in color, said by some to 
exist among untruths, whereby one is called a 
black and one a white lie. True, there are false- 
hoods of different degrees of malignity — more or 
less important in their immediate results, and told 
under different circumstances. Still, a lie is a 
lie ; and a lie is black, whiten it as you will. 
The principle is the same ; and let none flatter 
themselves that there is palliation for them by the 
strict law of morality, arising from any such ficti- 
tious consideration, as that they have told a little 
instead of a big, a white instead of a black lie. 
If they have not spoken fairly and truly, they 
have told a falsehood — and so let conscience an- 
swer. It is by making these distinctions without a 
difference, that, as I have said, falsehood may be 
more prevalent and deeper seated than many are 
apt to imagine. Let us take a trite instance — 
the fashionable answer to an unwelcome visitor 
— " Not at home ;" when the person inquired 
for is, at that very moment, leaning over the stair- 
way, or peering from a chamber window. "Now," 
argues that person, " I have not told a falsehood ; 
10 



210 



DISCOURSES. 



I only meant, not at home to that visitor." Ay 
a very important addition this, that would havs 
changed entirely the idea with which that visitor 
went away from your door. Had you said .that 
you was not at home " to him" or " to her" then 
the understanding would have distinctly been, 
that the contemplated visit was not agreeable to 
you ; but now the idea conveyed, and which you 
meant to have conveyed, is that you are not at 
home. You gave this announcement with the 
intent to deceive. "But," you may say, " this is 
a mode of declining a visit used by courtesy, 
instead of the harsher expression 1 1 do not wish 
to see you.'" Very well, if this is understood by 
the other party, then the words in the phrase " not 
at home " have lost their primary and assumed 
a conventional meaning, and are used and inter- 
preted accordingly. But you must see tcr it that 
the other party assuredly understands by these 
words that you decline the visit, and not that you 
are actually from home, or no art will screen 
you from the charge of downright falsehood. For 
it is just as untrue to say that you are not at 
home when you are, as to describe white as black 
or light as darkness. 

This may serve to illustrate other modes of 
suppressing or overleaping the truth, known 
under the names of " white lies," " mental reser 



THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TONGUE. Ill 

nations," etc. They will all, when subjected to 
strict analysis, resolve into sheer, downright false- 
hoods ; and so let them be regarded. 

I trust that you will avoid this abuse of the 
tongue. Never let it be the medium of a wilfully 
false communication. It would seem that policy, 
if no higher motive, would induce a man to abstain 
from this vice. As soon as it becomes known 
that he is a liar, all confidence in him is lost — 
we can trust him no more. And this distrust is 
based upon a conservative principle. If false- 
hood were allowed to run respectably at large, 
we should soon loosen the bands of social order. 
There would be no calculation upon integrity. 
Mutual trust and mutual obligation would be 
broken, and public faith and credit reduced to 
chaos. 

So, from a consideration of social and moral 
laws, from conscientious and from prudential 
motives, beware of untruth. Beware of it in all, 
even its slightest forms. Desist from it. Put it 
by w T ith loathing. It " is an unruly evil, full of 
deadly poison." 

I. might enlarge upon another evil habit of the 
tongue — that of speaking too much — of being a 
loud and incessant talker. Such a person can 
think but little, comparatively ; and it is in the 
silence of meditation that great ideas are born, 



112 



DISCOURSES, 



and glorious discoveries made. A constant talker 
too, is apt to say much that is foolish, much that 
is hurtful, much that is sinful. Guard against 
this evil. Use the great gift of speech freely, 
properly sociably — but do not abuse it, 

I have thus enumerated some of the evil ways 
in which the tongue is employed. In these we 
see that its power is great— that it may indeed 
" set on fire the course of nature," and operate as 
if it were "set on fire of hell." 

Let me, then, from the subjects presented, urge 
you to a strict government of the tongue. And 
in order to this, remember particularly one things 
— the tongue is but the agent or interpreter of the 
heart. In order that the tongue should be right, 
the heart must be right. The slander, the oath 
the lie, spring originally from that prime foun- 
tain of thought and action. Oh ! then, my friends* 
let your hearts be right — let them be moved by 
love to God, love to man, and the evil of the 
tongue will be quenched. In enjoining upon you 
to govern the tongue, I only say, in other words,, 
govern the heart. The tongue would be tuneless 
forever were it not for the crowding, burning* ; 
thoughts that arise and stir within. " Out of 
the same mouth," says James, " proceedeth 
Messing and cursing." And so it often is. We 



THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TONGUE. 113 



have 'no fixed principle within us, shedding its 
pure light, and engendering its high and holy 
motives in the soul ; and so, when temptation 
snares us — when there sweeps over our spirits a 
gust of passion, or an impulse of deceit — we make 
the tongue to utter its wicked words, and perform 
its evil agencies. But let the heart be pure and 
calm — let Jesus reign and grace triumph therein 
■ — and the tongue will utter only blessings, and 
words of good import, and prayer and praise. 

I spoke, in the commencement, of the rich gift 
of speech. How nobly it has been employed ! 
It has been uplifted by the homes of patriotism, 
and aroused the heart, and nerved the arm to 
strike for hearth and altar. It has gushed out in 
the sweet tones of love, and stirred the fountains 
of pure affection. It has kindled in the burning 
strains of the orator — it has poured the melody of 
the poet — it has spoken in the clear tones of reason 
and of justice. It has performed a mission for 
religion too, uttering words of mercy for the des- 
pairing, breathing consolation by the bed of the 
dying, calling back the prodigal from his wander- 
ings, and falling on the troubled soul like whis- 
pers from the land of angels. Such things has 
the tongue achieved ; and is it not sad, then, to 
think how polluted, how depraved, how sinful it 
has often been ? Think of it, think of it ! Think 
10* 



114 



DISCOURSES* 



of the evils caused in the world just by the sins 
of speech, and then remember that, had the human 
heart been right, this would never have been. 
In order to carry out my injunctions, you must go 
deeper than the frame-work of a formal, worldly 
virtue. You must go down and probe the heart 
— you must make all pure and holy there. How 
will you do it ? By repentance, by faith, by God's 
grace assisting you, by a life of holiness — a life 
carried out in imitation of Jesus Christ. 

Will you not begin now, then, to lead this life ? 
— to make this repentance? — -to cultivate this 
faith ?— to secure this grace ? Do so, do so, and 
your speech on earth shall be pure and blessed. 
Your words shall drop like dew. You shall pass 
on through your pilgrimage with songs; and when 
this " harp of a thousand strings " shall lie tune- 
less and crushed, and this vocal tongue be " silent 
in the grave," your spirits, clothed' with a new 
power of utterance, shall pass up, and sing before 
the Throne. 



DISCOURSE VI. 

THE HEAVENLY STATE CONTRASTED WITH THE 
EARTHLY. 

Revelation xxii. 5. — And there shall be no night there. 

. Night is the season of silence and repose, 
With the day, sink the feverish heat, the busy 
tumult, the care, the toil, and the strife of existence, 
Lying down, we become unconscious even of the 
beating of our own hearts, we sleep engirt with 
shadows, and all the moving round of life is 
sealed out from our vision, or enters only in the 
broken and incongruous imagery of dreams. And 
it is a blessed boon, that for tempted, troubled, 
wearied human nature there is a time of rest. It 
refreshes with a kind hand this mortal body, 
bowed with its many burdens, and it has a gentle 
mission for the strained and aching chords of the 
spirit. They may not need the night's calm rest 
- — the dwellers in yonder worlds, that through all 
its hours keep their bright watch above us ; — 
they may not feel its tender ministry who " sleep 
the dreamless sleep' 5 beneath. But for us, the 
dwellers of this world, weeping, bleeding, faint- 



116 



discourses. 



ing in its conflicts-— tired and worn with its toils 
■ — sickening with its griefs or its pleasures, — like 
h. dear mother, it takes us to its arms, and lulls 
us into peace, and makes us strong again. 

How peaceful and soothing are its hours ! 
Labor has laid aside the implements of its toil ; 
the fire is smouldering in the forge ; the sickle 
hangs idle on the wall, and the hammer and the 
axe lie still by the unfinished work. The lights 
have gone out from the dwellings, the hum has 
ceased on the pavements, and the world's deep 
shadow is only braided with glimmerings ol 
the sleepless stars. Like the grave, night has 
made all equal. The brawny arm of the strong 
man rests as powerless as that of the tiny infant 
that slumbers at his side. Wealth has laid by its 
costly robes, and the poor man's dreams are as 
glad and free. The beggar on his rick of straw 
is a king, and the king beneath his gorgeous 
canopy is a beggar. The passions of Ambition 
brood in its heart as still as the pulses of the 
humblest laborer, and Genius babbles its broken 
visions like the very idiot. Humanity, grief- 
worn, passion-tossed, labor- wearied, needs rest — - 
and rest has been bestowed. A blessed boon, we 
say again, is the night, for the tired body, the 
earth-worn spirit, the tried and the tempted — that 
they may lay them down in slumber, forgetful of 
all, and find rest. 



THE HEAVENLY STATE. 



117 



But these griefs and trials are only of earth. 
Beyond the grave — in heaven — they will not come 
to weary and perplex. What mode of existence 
we shall have when this mortal drapery is put 
off and we pass into the realities of another world, 
we cannot tell. That we shall exist independent 
of all manner of organization, we think doubtful. 
That the spirit may have eyes to see and ears 
to hear the glories that shall gush in upon it, 
is neither inconsistent with reason or with Scrip- 
ture. Paul says that "there is a spiritual body" 
that shall be raised in incorruption, and glory, 
and power. Christ rose from the sepulchre 
with a body — he stood on the mount of trans- 
figuration apparently in a material form. His 
countenance was there, although " altered," and 
he had raiment, although it was " white and 
glistering." The truth is, we think that heaven 
will consist more in the freedom and purity of 
the soul, than in the mode of its future existence, 
or the circumstances with which it will be sur- 
rounded. The spirit is a deathless and exhaust- 
less principle within us — this we know ; but how 
it shall continue to abide — upon what and through 
what it shall hereafter act — is one of the mysteries 
that we cannot behold with this mortal "glass 
through which we see darkly." That we shall 
have some kind of organization, is quite probable, 



118 



DISCOURSES. 



That we shall be limited in our resources and our 
power, developing as we go on from one stage of 
progress to another, is just as probable. If so, 
then there may be circumstances that will call for 
repose even there, and there may be physical con- 
ditions in the worlds in which we shall be placed 
that will produce the regular rotation of day and 
night. Now we admit all this to be very spec- 
ulative ; but what we would enforce by it is the 
idea that, allowing the text to refer to heaven 
hereafter, when we consider its highly figurative 
connection, it may not refer to literal night, and 
may be taken figuratively. And I have entered 
into this train of reasoning in order that I may 
not be understood as saying that literally there 
shall be no night, or nothing, in any degree, in 
our natures to require it. Equally far am I from 
asserting that there will be. This is left for the 
future and the immortal. But this we may say, 
that causes that perplex us now, and weary us, and 
make us weak and faint, will there be no more, 
and, therefore, to heal troubles like these " there 
shall be no more night." They will not exist, 
and rest from them, therefore, will not be needed. 
So here we have a contrast between the state of 
heaven and that of this earth. There shall be no 
more night for sorrow, for sorrow will not be 
there* There shall be no more night for sin, for 



THE HEAVENLY STATE. 



119 



sin cannot enter the crystal gates. There shall 
be no more night for evil passions, for they do not 
dwell by those clear waters of the paradise of 
God. Redeemed, happy, holy — lifting up their 
brows in everlasting glory, robed in perpetual 
beauty, the blessed ones shall walk those " sweet 
fields," and recline by those glad rivers — " And 
there shall be no night there." Let us look more 
in detail at some of the contrasts between the 
heavenly and the earthly state. 

I. Night, then, is not only a time for repose 
and silence, but it is also a time when sorrow has 
its keenest agony, and pours its bitterest lament. 
There are those to whose eyelids this season does 
not always bring sleep — who keep painful vigils, 
even with groans, and tears. The bustle and 
variety of the day may draw away the mind from 
its grief, and, engaging its powers in divers trains 
of thought and action, may for the while cause it 
to forget. But when the light has fled — when 
the beauty of the outward world is veiled, and 
the communion of social life is broken for a time 
— the spirit is left to itself, and driven in upon 
its own thoughts. And then the mourning ones 
tear open their wounds afresh, and people that 
vacant solitude with sad memories and painful 
forebodings. They reflect again upon what they 
feel, and what they have lost. 



120 



DISCOURSES. 



It is a time for the poor man to realize his pov- 
erty. As he looks upon the wan faces sleeping 
around him — as he ponders his seasons of bur- 
densome toil, his hours of fruitless labor, his dis- 
appointed hopes ; the bravery and energy that 
the excitement of the day gave him, sink before 
the desolation of the present, the experience of the 
past, and the chill aspect of the future. 

It is a time for the stranger and wanderer to feel 
his loneliness. He has not been alone through 
the hours of light. Although isolated among his 
fellows, he enjoyed the communion and the sym- 
pathy of nature. The blessed world smiled upon 
him like the face of a friend, and he felt as if its 
varied sounds were familiar voices, and music for 
his heart. But now, the sun has gone down. 
The clouds have lost their gorgeous draperies. 
The last ray of light has faded from the earth. 
And thoughts of his desolation stalk out from the 
grim shadows of the night. The memories of 
other years, of home, and warm hearts and kind 
hands far away, that know not of the forlorn con- 
dition of the tempest-tossed pilgrim, all ,press in 
upon him, and fill his eyes with sad and bitter tears. 

It is a time for the bereaved to miss more 
deeply their lost but cherished dead. The forms 
of life, and the life-like occupations, that for a time 
have attracted the memory and the soul, are now 



THE HEAVENLY STATE, 



121 



all gone. The deserted room, the vacant chair, 
the empty garment, are now all before them ; and 
the sweet faces of the loved and buried rise upon 
their swimming vision. The silence is filled with 
music-voices of the past. The hand is clasped 
by hands that are now, oh ! so still and cold : and 
when the dear delusion is all around them, like 
a sweet though mournful charm, they start — and 
the spell is broken ; — -the streams of the heart, that 
had gushed in sweet though melancholy dreams, 
flow back to sting the deep wounds there anew 
with memories from the grave. How many 
a mourner, in the reveries of the night-season, has 
felt the truth of the poet's verse ! 

•} With a slow and noiseless footstep : 
Comes that messenger divine, 
Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
Lays her gentle hand in mine. 

And she sits and gazes at me, 
With those deep and tender eyes, 

Like the stars so still and saint -like, 
Looking downwards from the skies. 

How many in contemplative fancy have felt all 
this, and then seen it melt away — -and then, then, 
have realized in the shadow, and silence, and deep 
loneliness of the night, the void that is left in the 
heart — the desolation that has come upon the life ! 
Sorrow, then, has its keen sway peculiarly at 
11 



122 



DISCOURSES. 



night. Tears, like the dew, fall in darkness ; 
and though, like the dew, perhaps, bestowing 
on the morrow a living freshness and a peace, 
yet, in the hour of their issuing from the heart's 
cold urn, wearing yet deeper the traces of its grief, 
and disturbing the ashes of its buried hopes — 
revealing in the loneliness of night the blank 
reality of destitution, and abstracting the mind 
from the scenes of the day to muse upon its 
inward cares and woes. 

But — there shall be no night there. No night 
of grief — no night of wounding sorrow — 

" His own soft hand shall wipe the tears 
From every weeping eye.' 5 

The groan of anguish and the sigh of despair 
shall be swallowed up in music. The soul of 
man seeks such a rest. The courage that enables 
us to bear with resignation the storms and changes 
of our earthly existence, derives much of its power 
from the hope that we have of final peace. The 
mariner who still wears his ship and clings to his 
helm, though the masts are shattered, the sails 
torn, and the vessel aleak, does so because he 
hopes yet to make the port, or that some friendly 
mariner, some daring life-boat, will discover his 
distress and haste to his succor. But let the hope 
of this deliverance desert him — let him sit down 



THE HEAVENLY STATE. 



123 



in despair, his mind made up to meet the worst 
and to find his tomb below the waves ; and he 
clings to the helm and wears the ship no longer 
— it rocks among the billows and drifts before the 
winds, " a shorn and naked wreck." So is it in 
life. We still cling to faith, and duty, and exist- 
ence, strengthened by the hope of a final rest — of 
reaching the eternal port of heaven ; and if it 
were not for this, I know not where many aching 
heads and aching hearts would find their balm. 

It must be a flinty philosophy indeed that 
can adopt the cheerless idea of annihilation j 
that can see every hope perish around it — friends 
that it loves go down to the grave ; and keep on 
through life, struggling and sickening, and sit down 
at last upon the threshold of the tomb, without 
one ray of a life hereafter — without one thought 
to brighten the deep shadow of that sepulchre, that 
we shall find that this high nature was not given 
us only to be grief-worn and depressed, but that, 
trained and purified by its earthly conflicts, it 
shall issue in a new existence, where care and 
grief shall never come, and there shall be nothing 
to mar, or separate, or crush : — I say he must be 
a flinty philosopher who can brave the changes of 
existence without such a hope, and finally, like 
the old sage, wrap himself in his mantle, and sit 
him down in apathy, to die. The death-bed of 



124 



DISCOURSES. 



the Christian is a calm one — the atmosphere of 
angels, filled with a holy peace, is around him — 
and yet his is not the calmness of apathy, of 
callous indifference. His parting spirit, as it 
breaks its earth-born tethers, thrills with a lively 
joy, and the light that falls upon his pale, wan 
face is from the hope of resting, free from these 
human toils, these mighty conflicts, these rending 
griefs, in a land where there shall be no more 
night. 

The soul of man, then, appears to require a 
final rest. The idea cheers it and nerves it up 
amid the fiercest trials of life, and gives it a sus- 
taining and triumphant faith in death. And this 
requirement of the soul is answered. There is 
a rest for it from the pangs of sorrow. It shall 
be buffeted no more when it goes up in the calm 
regions above. Cold hands shall not come there 
to tear its dearest ties. Poverty shall not bring 
its keen deprivations. The lonely shall meet 
their loved and their gentle ones. And they shall 
sit down together and rejoice. They shall drink 
of clear waters unmingled with bitterness. They 
shall hear sweet music that has no discord. They 
shall gather flowers that will never be blighted. 
" And there shall be no night there." 



II. But, again ; — night is a peculiar season 



THE HE AVE ML Y STATE. 125 

for Pain. The sick man feels a deeper restless* 
ness and agony in its silent watches. The 
minutes wear away with a torturing slowness, 
and he longs for the hour when he shall not 
see only the wan light of the taper, but when 
the fresh morning air and the bright morning sun 
shall break in upon him. But slowly, slowly 
wears the night — abstracting the mind, now that 
it hears no pleasant voices and sees no cheerful 
sights, to contemplate its weakness and agony, 
" The death-like images of the dark " start forth, 
and the oppression of despair weighs upon the 
faint and feeble heart. The fever comes in upon 
his troubled vision, and urges him to dream of 
cool, deep waters in the desert, that fly from his 
parched lips ; and he awakes to grapple with the 
hot air, and the trembling shadows on the w r all 5 
or to sleep again convulsively, and without rest. 
Oh ! how full of agony to the sick man is the 
night. How longs he for the day, when he can 
see and hear the movings of glad and happy life 
—the assurances that he is yet hopefully among 
the living — the cheering influences of the sun, the 
fresh air, and the flowers ! And then, too, the 
watchers, — loving, faithful, true. With what pain 
do they witness the convulsions of his brow, the 
faint, inarticulate moaning, the working of his 
parched lips ! How ghastly and wan their faces 
11* 



126 



DISCOURSED 



look by the light of that, dim lamp, as they bend 
over him with the healing liquid, or smooth his 
hot pillow with gentle hands, or start at his 
slightest motion ! or, with muffled feet, and 
finger on lip, and holding almost the very breath, 
they watch his first, blest sleep. 

So the night is a peculiar time for Pain. It 
hears many groans that the day does not. The 
sick one and the sick one's friends suffer peculiar 
anguish then, that the light and voices of the 
morning will dispel, but that will return with the 
darkness. In halls and huts there is pain at 
night—there are groans that come up from the 
homes of the rich and of the lowly poor, from 
prisons and hospitals, and " pierce its dull ear." 

But Pain is not of heaven. " There shall be 
no night there ;" no night of sickness— no night 
of sad and feverish watching. There shall be 
no weepers there by troubled couches — there 
shall be no hot moments of mortal agony. Our 
earthly lot is mortal Our human organization 
is liable to decay. Life is short, and some- 
times but a comparatively small portion of its 
years is free from pain and sickness. We 
walk on a little while with the bloom of health in 
the cheek, and the light of happiness in the eye. 
Then the bloom fades, the light goes out, we are 
stretched upon beds of pain ; we recover, perhaps } 



THE HEAVENLY STATE. 



127 



and are laid there again and yet again ; we totter 
feebly on a few more years, and then sink into 
the grave. This is often the lot of human beings. 
But however individual experience may prove, we 
all suffer, more or less, the liabilities of our com- 
mon nature. If we were to live nowhere beyond 
this earth— if the tomb were to close upon us for- 
ever — we might deeply wonder at this ; but it is 
not so. When we consider the grave as a passage 
to another state of existence, we shall see a wise 
provision of Providence, in preparing us for that 
passage by premonitory hints and forewarnings, 
which come to disturb our complete absorption in 
the things of this earth, and to remind us that 
that passage must be trodden. Every pang of 
agony, every stroke of sickness, may be said to 
be a premonition. It reminds us that we are not 
cased in an ever-enduring tabernacle ; but that, 
one by one, its chords wear away and its func- 
tions lose their tone ; and we begin to think it 

" Strange that a harp of thousand strings 
Should keep in tune so long." 

So we may say, perhaps, that death does not 
generally come without a personal forewarning — » 
not only by the teachings of wisdom and expe- 
rience, learned from others ; but by pains, and 
aches, and fever-fits, to which w r e are all more or 



123 



discourses. 



less liable, that bid us remember that there is 
another world in which we are to dwell, and that 
these earthly integuments will soon fail us alto- 
gether. Death must come, or this earth would 
be crowded by ever advancing generations* 
There must be a place for active life to move upon, 
and it is prepared above the great thronged char- 
nel-house of the dead. The condition, then, of 
our earthly nature— its necessary circumstances* 
arising from things as they are— make pain and 
sickness attendants of our lot. 

But in heaven-— in the bright state above — is 
immortality. There are no graves there* The 
"many mansions" of our " Father's House" are 
spacious enough to accommodate all existences, 
and one will not intrude upon another. So, there 
will be no wasting bloom, no fading life, no agony, 
no fever, They are deathless fountains that flow 
in the angel-land — leaves of immortal greenness 
bend and quiver there. No groans, no achings* 
no weary watchings, for those who arrive at 
Home. They will embrace dear friends who 
have gone before them, but they will not see the 
wan faces that those friends wore when they 
gazed upon them last— they will be all fresh and 
radiant beneath their sparkling crowns. They will 
not clasp the loved who come after them with such 
feeble, clammy hands as when they bade them 



THE HEAVENLY STATE. 



129 



farewell. Disease, and cruelty, and casualty, and 
war, will not be there to inflict pain. There will 
be no sickness — there will be grieving for the 
sick no more. " And there shall be no night 
there." 

III. But, once more ; — night is a peculiar sea- 
son for Sin. The Bible tells us that he who 
doeth evil loveth the darkness. It is a covering 
for guilt and vice to work under. No eye can 
see them that they would not — save One, of 
which, perhaps, they little think ; and they go 
forth to their plottings and their evil orgies. 
Drunkenness, licentiousness, crime, seek then 
" their rank dens of shame." Then the coarse 
jest, the fearful oath, the riotous laugh break out. 
Then it is that widowed hearts are mourning for 
a dear son, an only brother, a still loved husband, 
who are reeling in their debauchery — who ha v e 
left their hearths cold, their babes starving, their 
wives, and sisters, and mothers broken-hearted. 
Then it is that faces that were once innocent and 
beautiful are flushed with intemperance, and cov- 
ered with long, streaming hair loosened in guilty 
riot. Then it is that murder sharpens its keen 
knife and curses the very stars, and theft prowls 
about with its dark lantern. Then it is that hag- 
gard faces bend over their whole fortunes staked 



130 



DISCOURSES. 



on the gaming-table. Then it is that shrieks 
come up from the midst of drunken strife, and 
the unwary traveller falls beneath the robber's 
weapon. Then it is that the brand of burning is 
applied, and property and life are sacrificed in the 
flaming pile. In short, night is sin's great season 
of carnival, when in all varied shapes — with all 
hideous masks and horrid antics and guilty ex- 
cesses — its hosts assemble together. Then the 
miser counts his gold, and the assassin his victim's 
heart-drops. Then the burglar lays his plan, and 
the wicked schemer his. Then guilt triumphs 
over purity, and vice over virtue. Then revelry 
shouts next the very chamber of the dead, and 
mockery sneers on the face of the day-long hypo- 
crite. Then temptation digs the grave of inno- 
cence, and death holds the torch. Then all these 
crowds of guilty realities live and move and 
mingle and swagger through the darkness. 

But sin has no home in the kingdom of heaven. 
" There shall be no night there." No night for 
guilt, for riot, shame, and debauch. How calm, 
how holy the transition ! How sweet the change 
from these impure regions of darkness and 
death, to that fair clime of peace and light ! 

One fundamental idea of heaven is freedom 
from sin. This is all-essential to true enjoyment, 
here or hereafter. Sin, then, cannot come near 



THE HEAVENLY STATE. 



131 



the throne, or enter the new Jerusalem. There 
is a difference between intellectual and moral 
imperfection, and a life of guilt. The one is a 
state of actual transgression — the other may be 
one stage of right development, from which it 
is possible to advance to other and higher stages. 
The idea that heaven is a state of complete re- 
pose, without action or advancement, we deem 
an incorrect one. It may be supposed to be a 
state of vigorous and lofty action. And it is 
quite probable that the motive to this action will 
be the idea of progress and improvement. If 
there are progress and improvement to be made 
hereafter, of course that very fact presupposes 
a state of intellectual and moral imperfection that 
may be progressed from and improved upon. If 
we are perfect, in the proper sense of that term, 
we cannot improve, or progress. But we may be 
free from sin, free from unrighteous action, and 
yet not perfectly wise and holy. We may turn 
from one path and walk in another, and yet, 
being free from the path which we have left, we 
may not have reached ihe end of that upon which 
we have entered. So, in saying that we shall sin 
no more, I do not say that we shall improve no 
more. World after world, system beyond sys- 
tem, may be as golden ladders of an eternal and 
infinite progress. But, speculative as this is, this 



132 DISCOURSES. 

we say — there is no sin in heaven. Crime, li- 
centiousness, debauchery — the evil thought and 
the evil deed— have no sway there. The soul 
shall rest in peace from them. The tears that 
they have caused, the sighs, the groans, shall be 
no more. Blood-washed are the robes that the 
redeemed shall wear — pure are the spirits that 
enter the heavenly gate. Calm and happy shall 
they look, when they come up from their tribula- 
tion. There shall be sweet voices, glad music, 
triumphant songs — but no sin. " There shall be 
no night there." 

IV. Again ; — night is peculiarly a time for 
^Remorse, In the roar and rush and busy tumult 
of the day, the commission of sin is, compara- 
tively, unreflected upon, and the voice of con- 
science is smothered. But at night, still, clear, 
profound, we can hear the very beatings of the 
pulse, and it seems as if forms invisible were 
brooding around, listening to the inward accusa- 
tions of the heart. Oh ! for hands that are reeking 
with blood— for souls that are stained with crime, 
how awful is the night ! The dagger that led to 
murder hovers in airy vision before them — the 
Banquo ghosts, that will not down, start up around 
them ; and on the hand darkens that little spot, 
that "all the perfumes of Araby will not sweeten." 



THE HEAVENLY STATE. 133 

Bat it is not only for the guilt of deep, polluting 
crime that night is a season of remorse. It is 
terrible for this. Poets have traced with thrilling 
power the workings of the brow, the beaded 
sweat, the starting from ghastly dreams, when at 
this hour conscience rouses up its deep, tremen- 
dous hell within. 

But a remorse, if ngt so violent as this, yet 
deep and bitter, will, in the season of night, natu- 
rally come over the soul of any one who reflects 
upon the sins and the errors of frail human na- 
ture. The day has passed. Its sounds are 
hushed — its glare and show have faded away. 
We look back, in this hour so fit for musing, upon 
the past. What transgressions rise up before us ! 
what sins of omission and of commission ! How 
many times, even in the brief portion of the 
twenty-four hours just fled, have we wandered 
from God and from duty ! How often have we 
yielded to evil passion ! How many sinful 
thoughts have we indulged ! How many actions 
that conscience, in its strict impartiality, assures 
us were really wrong, have we committed ! How 
many good deeds that we might have done have 
we failed to do ! How many good resolutions 
have we broken ! How many fitful gusts of im- 
pulse have driven us along ! How much time, 
and talent, and opportunity, have we wasted, or 
12 



134 



DISCOURSES. 



worse than wasted ! But the catalogue swells in 
upon us. And all this, it is likely, in one short 
day ! — how much more in the course of a life 1 
And still God's law has been in our hands, and 
Christ's pure precepts of duty — and we have 
heeded them not ! Oh ! as these thoughts accu- 
mulate and accuse us — as we think of the good- 
ness of God, still never failing — the love of 
Christ, still ever calling us — is not the night a 
season for remorse, for contrition, for lamenta- 
tions over our various* and many follies, and for 
bitter, gushing tears ? 

But, as there is no sin in heaven, there will be 
no remorse. So, " there shall be no night there.'' 
No night for guilty memories — no night for 
wounded, accusing conscience. The sweet 
thought of pardon — the happy consciousness of 
reconciliation — will heal the sin-anguished soul. 
"We shall not have to look back from time to time 
upon fatal lapses, upon grievous follies, upon 
temptations that have attacked and overwhelmed 
us. If it were so, surely the bliss of the future 
state would be marred, and in our spiritual exist- 
ence we should feel as we do while we are " of 
the earth, earthy." How sweet to tried, tossed, 
tempted souls the thought that they shall be tried, 
tossed, tempted no more, and have no more to 
weep over sin and error and neglect ! Yet so 
will it be. " There shall be no night there." 



THE HEAVENLY STATE. 



135 



V. But, finally ; — there is a night, which, 
although it depend not upon the revolutions of 
this earth about the sun, or the precise measure 
of hours — for it comes at all seasons — is yet a 
night, and may properly be spoken of here as such. 
It is the night of death — the shadow that broods 
over the regions of the grave. Yes, our nights here 
may be seasons of sorrow, of sickness, of sin, of re- 
morse, or they may not ; but this night of death 
will come upon us all. No earthly sun can dis- 
pel its shadows — no earthly morrow shall ever 
break upon it. How many have sunk to slumber 
in the arms of this night ! How many that we 
knew, and trusted, and loved ! How sadly have 
we kissed their cold, cold lips, and laid them in 
their lowly graves ! How suddenly, too, they 
went from us ! Like leaves in the midst of sum- 
mer, like flowers in the sunny spring, they 
drooped, and died ! And though the mourner 
smiles, and, as the world imagines, is happy ; 
perhaps there is a flood of grief, like waters in an 
urn, pent up even now in the heart, and the least 
touch — the vibration of the least chord of mem- 
ory — shall make that heart to overflow. 

This is a night, too, that has all hours for itself 
— that shadows the heaven even in the morning, 
or at noon. It wraps in its arms not only the gray 
and tottering old man— but the strong, the young, 



136 



DISCOURSES. 



the lovely. It strikes the cup of joy from the 
very lip — it crushes music on the Very lyre — it 
quenches the flame on the very altar — and all is 
dark. Rich, poor, old, young, talented, ignorant, 
good, bad — it is a night that comes for all. It 
will come for us ! It will roll on, and roll on, 
and gather in its embrace the generations of hu- 
manity ! 

But its triumph is confined to earth. It never 
enters heaven. " There shall be no night there." 
No night of death — no night of the tomb. There 
are trophies hanging on those crystal walls, but 
they are not the trophies of earth's great con- 
queror. They are the trophies of that Victor 
who conquered the conqueror — " who plucked 
the sting from death and robbed the grave of vic- 
tory" — who trod its broken bars beneath his feet, 
and, " triumphant, passed the crystal ports of 
light." 

Heaven is a place for meeting, not for parting 
— for life, and not for death — and so there is no 
night there. Flowers that faded here bloom there 
forever — plants that drooped and died, live in 
unwithermg green. That there shall be a recog- 
nition of friends in heaven, appears an important 
principle in that glad hope which is born of the 
doctrine of immortality. When they are laid in 
the grave, we speak of the great truth of " the 



THE HE AVE 2s Li STATE. 



137 



resurrection from the dead n and " the life eter- 
nal," to the bereaved and mourning. But what 
is one soothing chord that we touch in that in- 
stance ? Is it not the hope of meeting again ? — 
and how can we meet again, in any proper sense of 
these words, unless we recognise each other, or 
bear about with us that by which we may recognise 
each other? That we must know one another, 
appears to me plain, unless we lose all identity ; 
and then what is it to this thinking, acting me if 
I am raised, if all that made me in this world is 
stripped away ? N ay, I could not, in that in- 
stance, rise at all — my identity gone, it would 
be another being. 

But, meeting in heaven, we shall meet to part 
no more We shall not see death there. We shall 
not mourn for the lovely and the lost. The Jordan 
passed over— the fields gained beyond " the swell- 
ing flood" — we shall not go back, to die again. 
The husband that mourned for a departed wife, 
will see her, there. The old man will clasp his 
son, there. And the mother, too, will see that 
little babe that she wept over with such fast and 
bitter tears, yet with faith. 

" The mother gave in tears and pain 
The flowers she most did lore, 
She knew she would find them all again 
In the fields of light above. 

12* 



138 



discourses* 



Oh ! not in cruelty, not in wrath. 
The Reaper came that day 5 
} T was an angel visited the green earth*. 
And took the flowers away," 

, Oh ! the joy of that heavenly meeting* Oh ! 
the joy of that eternal communion. Oh ! the joy 
of seeing Christ. Oh ! the joy of that worship 
around the throne, with " the white-vested el- 
ders" and the angels. And never to go away 
from that blessed place ! — never to die ! For 
" there shall be no night there." 

With two remarks upon our subject we will 
close. We have been speaking of heaven. And 
by heaven we mean only the abode of the righ 
eous — the good. I wish not to be misunderstood. 
Let it not be said, that I have represented heaven 
as a place wherein the bad, the guilty, the sin- 
stained enter, and sit with the blessed. Heaven 
is a holy clime, and they who enter heaven must 
be holy. I know of no class of Christians who 
hold that in heaven the vile shall mingle with the 
pure. Those who limit sin and its consequences 
to this life ever hold the idea, if I understand 
them, that guilt shall be washed away from every 
soul before it reaches the new Jerusalem. But, 
at the same time, 1 am willing to say, and deem 
it proper that I should, that I do not hold that 



THE HEAVENLY STATE. 



death destroys the effects of sin. The argument 
upon identity that I have employed above, it 
seems to me, naturally leads to this conclusion. 
If we look upon the soul as the seat of thought 
and motive, I can conceive that, even tabernacled 
in a body that is not liable to physical death, the 
soul can suffer the consequences of its guilt. It 
seems to me that in the future life there may be 
a distinction of good and bad. I have not, then, 
been stating the glories of heaven as the imme- 
diate possession of all at the end of this life. I 
have represented it as the true Christian's home — 
to which, in every storm and every peril, he may 
look with faith's clear vision, and be comforted 
and strengthened. 

But, were I to pause here, I should lay myself 
open to misunderstanding on the other hand. It 
is at the position of endless punishment that I 
halt. Between endless and limited retribution 
in the future world there is an infinite difference. 
The arguments that support the one cannot be 
pressed into the service of the other. I would 
ask, then, those who hold the doctrine of endless 
punishment, can you reconcile it with your best 
ideas of heaven and immortality ? What bright 
hope is it that bursts upon you, as you think of 
that region where there shall be no more night ? 
Is it not that of meeting all the lost and the departed 



140 



DISCOURSES, 



there ? Is there one around whom your heart- 
strings are twined with all the strong power of 
affection, that you can think of, as being absent 
from you forever ? Ay, and more than this, not 
merely absent, but suffering? Mother, thou 
dost love that prodigal boy, notwithstanding all his 
ingratitude — notwithstanding he wrings thy heart 
with bitter agony. Do you not hope to see him re- 
turn, to be reconciled and to love thee yet ? Do 
you not think with agony, of all that he may be suf- 
fering in his mad career ? And if it is so, that 
thou dost yearn for the absent here, will it not be 
so in eternity ?— will not the happy souls still feel 
a void until all the lost ones shall come home ? 
May not they be ministering spirits sent forth to 
bring them to virtue and to heaven— to per- 
form an agency of reconciling a world, through 
Christ, to God ? There is no night in heaven- 
shall endless night brood over any part of this 
great universe ? Oh ! will it not be that in the 
end there shall be no night at all ?— no night for us 
— no night for those we love— the wandering and 
the lost ? How bright is such an anticipation ! 
From every world that rolls sweet music gushing 
out — on every crystal wall white robes and starry 
crowns ; and over every radiant isle, and every 
glassy sea, over all the boundless universe, no 
night ! 



THE HEAVENLY STATE. 



141 



Tri3 other remark that I would make is this : 
*Ve have taken the common ills of earth — sorrow, 
pain, guilt, remorse, and have contrasted them 
with the heavenly state. Our actions should 
correspond to this truth. It should have its 
proper effect upon us. It should make us live for 
heaven, if heaven has all this value. The future 
state is not for inactive, dreamy contemplation. 
Heaven begins here, as we begin to seek for it — 
to cultivate the soul ; and heaven there is, as it 
were, but a continuation of this. Righteousness — 
following Christ that we may be like him — ever 
has been and ever will be the way, and the only 
way, to get to heaven. Raising our thoughts, 
then, as we have to-night, and dwelling upon the 
glories of the upper world, will avail us but little 
— nay, will be but a bright dream — unless the 
heart is made better. The prospect of heaven 
will have its proper effect upon us when it excites 
in us a desire to dwell in heaven, and when, in 
turn, that desire excites us to right action, we 
shall begin to be in heaven. Oh! as you value 
heaven, I do beseech you, from this hour act 
upon this truth. Act, act ! — live on earth for 
heaven — for that bright immortal state, where 
they have washed their robes and made them 
white in the blood of the Lamb ; — where they 
are before the throne of God, and serve him day 



142 



DISCOURSES. 



and night in his Temple, and He that sitteth on 
the throne dwelleth among them ; — -where they 
hunger no more, neither thirst any more ; neither 
shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For 
the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne 
shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living 
fountains of waters : and God shall wipe away 
all tears from their eyes. There shall be no 
night there ! 



DISCOURSE VII. 



THE STILL SMALL VOICE. 

I Kings xix. 11, 12. — And, behold, the Lord passed by, 
and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in 
pieces the rocks before the Lord ; but the Lord was not in the 
wind : and after the wind was an earthquake ; but the Lord 
was not in the earthquake : and after the earthquake a fire ; 
but the Lord was not in the fire : and after the fire a still 
small voice. 

The circumstances connected with this sublime 
narration are briefly these : Ahab, the son of 
Omri, and the king of Israel, had married Jeze- 
bel, the daughter of Ethbaal, king of the Zido- 
nians ; and, in connection with his marriage, we 
are told that he " went and served Baal, and wor- 
shipped him," and reared up an altar for him in 
a house which he had built in Samaria. This 
worship did Ahab, the sovereign of a people whose 
fathers were brought up in the knowledge of the 
one true God, whose law was specially committed 
to them, and whose miracles had been wrought, as 
it were, in their midst — this idolatrous worship did 
Ahab render. Elijah the Tishbite, a prophet of 
the Lord, had proclaimed the mandate of Jeho- 
vah, that there should be no rain nor dew for a 



144 



DISCOURSES. 



lapse of time, " and there was a sore famine in 
Samaria." " After many days," the prophet was 
commanded to show himself unto the king, and 
it was promised that there should be rain again 
upon the earth. In the mean time, Ahab had 
commanded Obadiah, the governor of his house, 
to " go into the land, unto all fountains of water, 
and unto all brooks ;" to endeavor to find grass 
to save the horses and mules alive ; and, appor- 
tioning out different routes of travel, the king 
went one way and Obadiah another. While the 
latter was on his journey, he met Elijah, who 
commanded him to tell Ahab of his presence in the 
land ; to which Obadiah remonstrated, that if the 
prophet should not be in the appointed place when 
Ahab sought him, he would be slain. But upon 
the assurance of the prophet that he would be there, 
Obadiah went to meet Ahab, and told him. Upon 
the conference which ensued between Elijah and 
the king, the prophet tells him, that he had not 
troubled Israel, but him and his father's house, 
because they had forsaken the commandments of 
the Lord and followed Baalim. " Now therefore 
send," says he, " and gather to me all Israel unto 
mount Carmel, and the prophets of Baal four 
hundred and fifty, and the prophets of the groves 
four hundred, which eat at Jezebel's table." 
And there, on the summit of " the finest and 



THE STILL SMALL VOICE. 145 

tnost beautiful mountain in Palestine," with 
Kishon flowing here, Tabor and Hermon ris- 
ing there, the hills of Samaria in the distance, 
and the broad Mediterranean rolling beneath, 
stood in the majesty of truth that lone prophet 
of God, and addressed the congregated multi- 
tude — " How long halt ye between two opinions ? 
if the Lord be God, follow Him : but if Baal, then 
follow him." And oh! with the glorious works 
of the living God rising and mantling around 
them, with an evidence of Him in every blue 
wave that rippled to the' mountain's base, and in 
every tall hill that towered throne-like to the sky 
— with the memory of the wonder and glory of 
other days— of the Egyptian bondage and the 
desert miracles ; does it not seem as if there were 
powerful, overwhelming inducements to decide 
them in their choice ? But a more immediate 
sign was to be given. It was proposed that two 
bullocks should be selected, and cut in pieces, and 
laid on wood, with no fire beneath. " And call 
ye on the name of your gods," said the holy man 
— the only remaining prophet of God ; " call ye 
on the name of your gods, and I will call on the 
name of the Lord : and the God that answereth 
by fire, let him be God. And all the people 
answered and said, It is well spoken." Accord- 
ingly, the prophets of the false deity took the 
13 



146 



DISCOURSES. 



bullock which was given them and dressed it, and 
called on the name of their god— from the morn- 
ing until the noon — " Oh Baal ! hear us !" The 
mountain breeze bore on the sound, the rocks and 
caverns echoed it back—" but there was no voice, 
nor any that answered." They leaped up and 
down at the altar which they had made, and 
when the noon-tide came on, the voice of the 
prophet was heard in bitter mockery — " Cry 
aloud, for he is a god : either he is talking, or he 
is pursuing, or he is in a journey, or peradven- 
ture he sleepeth, and Ynust be awaked." And 
loud went up the cries of those idol prophets, 
and red gushed the blood from the wounds of 
knife and lancet, and the mid-day passed, " and 
they prophesied until the time of the offering of 
the evening sacrifice " — but " there was neither 
voice, nor any to answer, nor any that regarded." 

And now was the time for the prophet of the 
living and true God. The people gathered 
around him — the altar of the Lord that was 
broken down he repaired, and took twelve stones, 
"the number of the tribes of the sons of Jacob," 
and reared one in the name of Jehovah, and made 
a trench about the altar, and put the wood in 
order, and cut the bullock in pieces and placed it 
upon the wood, and gave order to fill four barrels 
with water and pour it on the wood and on the 



THE STiLL SMALL VOICE. 147 

sacrifice, the second, yea, the third time—" until 
Jie water ran about the altar ;" and he filled the 
trench also with water. And there, " at the time 
of the offering of the evening sacrifice " — as the 
great sun was sinking to the sea and the mur- 
muring breeze came up — as the attentive multi- 
tude, the eager and breathless people, and the 
disappointed prophets of the idol, stood in listen- 
ing silence — there, at the side of that mountain- 
altar, went up the deep, earnest prayer of Elijah — 
1 Lord God t of Abraham, Isaac, and of Israel, 
let it be known this day that Thou art God in 
Israel, and that I am thy servant, and that I have 
done all these things at thy word. Here me, oh 
Lord, hear me ; that this people may know that 
Thou art the Lord God, and that Thou hast 
turned their heart back again." 

And then down rained the fire of heaven, con- 
suming the sacrifice, the wood, the stones, the 
dust, and licking up the water in the trench — 
and that vast multitude of people fell prostrate on 
their faces, and up rose their united shout, thrilling 
the dark woods, and echoing through the caverns, 
and pealing far over the sea — " The Lord, he is 
the God; the Lord, he is the God." 

After this signal triumph of truth, the prophets 
of Baal were taken and brought down to the 
brook Kishon, and slain there by Elijah. The 



148 



DISCOURSES. 



promise of an abundance of rain was made to 
Ahab, and was fulfilled. Bat Jezebel, incensed 
at the prophet on account of the slaughter, threat- 
ened his life, and he arose and came to Beer- 
sheba, where he left his servant, and thence " went 
a day's journey into the wilderness, and came 
and sat down under a juniper tree ; and he re- 
quested for himself that he might die." Twice, 
while he was asleep there, the angel of the Lord 
came and touched him, and bade him partake of 
food prepared for him. He jourrteyed " in the 
strength of that meat forty days and forty nights," 
to mount Horeb. Hither he came unto a cave 
and lodged, and the word of the Lord came to 
him and said — " What doest thou here, Elijah ?" 
And he said, " I have been very jealous for the 
Lord God of hosts ; for the children of Israel 
have forsaken thy covenant, thrown down thine 
altars, and slain thy prophets with the sword : 
and I, even I only, am left ; and they seek my 
life, to take it away." And here follows the 
sublime description in our text. 

There must have been, from the very nature 
of the case, something awfully sublime in the 
communications of Jehovah with the holy men 
of old. Even the mention of it calls up thej 
emotion of sublimity. How different from the 
juggling mysteries of heathen priests* and the 



THE STILL SMALL VOICE. 



149 



fantastic wildness of the oracles ! He made the 
elements, the wondrous principles of the great 
universe, to herald his approach, The cloud and 
the flame — fche garnitures that hang beneath his 
throne — betokened his presence, and his voice 
came forth from the unsearchable depths. God 
communing with man ! He, before whose radiant 
seat bright angels are impure — whose voice is 
the fiat of the universe— who hath his way in 
the whirlwind and the storm— Jehovah commun- 
ing with man !— a creature of this far, dim orb ! 
Sublime, awfully sublime, I repeat it, is the idea. 
And awfully sublime, indeed, was the communi- 
cation of God with Moses upon Sinai — with the 
thick clouds, the thundering?, the trumpet-blasts, 
the smoke and the fire — when the leader of Israel 
went up and was answered by a voice— when the 
dread bounds of approach were set, and he drew 
near " unto the thick darkness where God was," 
when his face shone with a strange brightness, 
and when the law was given. 

And in our text we have another instance, 
blended with that which adds, if I may so speak, 
to its sublimity. 

" Go forth," was the mandate to the prophet, 
*' ; and stand upon the mount before the Lord." 
And, then, there came a mighty whirlwind, rush- 
13* 



150 



DISCOURSES'. 



ing and shouting by, rending the tall mountains 
in its course, and shivering the solid rocks — -bul 
God was not in that great and strong wind— 

" 'Twas but the whirlwind of his breath, 
Announcing danger, wreck, and death." 

Again, and there was a hearing and billowy 
earthquake, and the high, bare, thunder-smitten 
pinnacles tottered upon their old foundations, and 
'the deep-rooted mountains? with their yawning' 
chasms, rocked, as it surged and plunged by;— 
but God was not in the earthquake- — 

" 'T was but the rolling of his car, 
The trampling of his steeds from far.' J 

Once more, and sheeted fire—quivering antt 
glancing flame— flame, with its bright and terri* 
ble glory, illumining the naked mountain-sides 
and the deep defiles— went sweeping by ; — but 
God was not in the flame— 

" 5 T was but the terror of his eye, 
That lighten'd through the troubled sky." 

These all passed on, and when there was a hush 
—when stillness and calm had fallen, there arose 
" a still small voice " on the prophet's ear ; and 
he wrapped his face in his mantle, and stood to 
listen = 



TH£ still small voice. 



151 



This was that peculiar sublimity of which we 
spoke. All the usual manifestations of God's 
presence— the revelations of awful grandeur were 
there ; but God was not in these. It was when 
they were gone — when the tumult and the terror 
had ceased-^-that Elijah heard the words of the 
Lord, in " a still small voice. " 

We will here take leave of the history, and 
proceed with some practical remarks upon the 
subject. 

I. The consolations of religion, my hearers* 
are not found in the pursuits and bustle of the 
world. In a pause from these, or in retirement* 
we shall obtain a knowledge and use of those 
principles which will fit us to go on with the 
avocations and affairs of life— but we shall not 
gain them while we pursue these only, unpre- 
pared for the various changes and cares and 
modes of conduct attendant upon existence. In 
the whirlwind of passion, the earthquake that 
shakes empires, the flame of ambitious desire — * 
we shall find no word of consolation, to nerve us 
for disappointment, to fit us for sorrow, and to 
bid us look calmly beyond the grave. The tide 
of worldly business, also, is a tumultuous and 
swift-rushing torrent* but " the waters of Shiloah 



152 



DISCOURSES. 



go softly." You understand my idea probably, 
but allow me to enlarge upon it. 

Man, I believe, say and do what he will, is 
desirous for that calm and cheerful joy which 
only the principles of true religion can impart. 
He is ever seeking, restless and unsatisfied, until 
he imbibes these principles ; and it is quite pro- 
bable that, frequently, he does not know what 
troubles him. He looks up to the sky, and 
abroad upon the laughing face of earth, and there 
is an impression of happiness and purity and 
serene beauty, which he cannot comprehend, but 
which lie feels is needed in the depths of his 
own soul ; and from that soul go out ardent 
thoughts and deep aspirations for the holy and 
the true. Why is it that men in all ages have 
constructed systems of ethics, and pointed out 
something disconnected with the mere pursuits 
of every day— why is it that searchings for 
virtue, and endeavors after " the greatest good," 
have employed the minds of philosophers — why 
is it that bright dreams, like the ineffable region 
of the Gnostic, or the vision of Utopia, have flit- 
ted before the eye of the soul — if it be not that 
man has within him this yearning, to speak 
plainly, for religion ? 

This sentiment in humanity may be accounted 
for in various ways, but still it seems to me cer* 



THE STILL SMALL VOICE. 



153 



tain that the sentiment exists. Be it the faint 
memory of an early revelation, the natural effect 
of outward circumstances, or the operation of 
innate ideas — it still, from some cause, exists 
and works in the soul, and moves it on to seek 
for happiness and rest. I do not say that it al- 
ways seeks for the holy and the true — it may do 
so when it discovers that to be the only true 
source of happiness ; it does not always recog- 
nise the still small voice — but goes forth in the 
whirlwind, or commits its trust to the rushing 
torrent. I do not say that it always endeavors 
after the pure principle of religion ; but I say 
that, either with knowledge or in ignorance of its 
object, the soul, it would seem, is ever seeking 
for happiness and peace. 

Why does the warrior pass through burning 
sands and Alpine snows, and seek Fame beneath 
the shade of plumes and banners — in the crush- 
ing ranks of hosts — in the hot strife of battle? 
Is it not for the sweetness which the soul im- 
bibes at the thought of a high name among men 
— of the long line of future generations that shall 
come .pilgrims to the tomb, and wreathe laurels 
around the statue ? He does not strike down 
his fellow-man with the reeking hand, and stride 
above smouldering cities, merely for the gratifi- 
cation which this work of destruction affords 



154 



DISCOURSES. 



him. No ; perchance he will encounter scenes 
that will cause him even to turn his head and 
weep — but Fame — his happiness, his all, as he 
thinks, is linked with .Fame — this is the pathway 
to its goal — and blood and slaughter and desola- 
tion strew its course ; others have waded through 
these to gain its trophies, and so must he. His 
soul is restless and strong with its impulses — its 
yearnings must be satisfied — and, in his igno- 
rance, he has chosen this. 

" Wealth," thinks another, " wealth will give 
me peace. Golden ingots piled around me — 
sparkling gems of priceless value — the sway of 
the vast influence that money gives — the control 
of thousands — of the property of others — the 
stores of precious merchandise ; wealth will give 
me peace, and I will seek for that." 

And thus might we proceed with various 
courses of employment which men pursue, and 
trace the springs of action far back to this desire 
for good — -this deep impulse of the soul for hap- 
piness — this secret aspiration after peace ; all 
pursuits, at least, that contemplate in their results 
the attainment of something beyond the mere 
necessaries of -existence— that call man from the 
sowing and reaping of the grain, the dusky labors 
?f the work-shop, the acquirement of the ele- 



THE STILL SMALL VOICE. 155 

ments of education — to the bustling mart, the 
martial field, the cabinet, and the throne. 

But, be our suggestions upon this point true 
or not, certain it is, that these are not, in them- 
selves, the foundations of happiness ! Many of 
them may contribute much toward it in our tem- 
poral state — but that which will enable us to 
pursue these things aright, and to bear with a 
proper spirit the various circumstances of life, is 
found in the hour of reflection or retirement, or 
inward or spiritual communion. When we listen 
to the earnest calls of religion and act habitually 
upon its principles, will we find an influence 
which will answer and satisfy all these yearn- 
ings of our nature. And we shall find these not 
in the halls of revelry and pride — not in the wild 
course of unhallowed ambition — not in the hur- 
rying rush of busy life ; but when we have come 
out from these — when our mantles are wrapped 
around us, and our spirits have bowed to hear — 
then shall we learn them, as it were, from " a 
still small voice," that will breathe peace and joy 
and eternal life. 

II. I would remark again upon the text, that 
we must not mistake great excitement or osten- 
tatious devotion for true religion. How much, 
my hearers, how much, in different ages and 



156 



DISCOURSES. 



places of the world, have men looked to the out- 
ward, the showy, the ceremonial, as the true 
mode of religious worship and action ! How 
have they tithed the mint, the anise and the 
cummin, forgetting judgment, mercy and faith — 
the weightier matters of the law ! How have 
they lost sight of the fact, that religion dwells in 
the depths of the heart, and beams with an angel- 
radiance from the face of the poor man, and 
drops the widow's mite into the treasury, and 
hallows the humble cottage, and lingers amid 
the rude arches of the forest ; when it is perhaps 
afar from the robe of learning, and the hypocriti- 
cal righteousness of the rigid professor, and the 
golden donation of the rich, and the gorgeous 
tapestry of the temple, and the glittering orna- 
ments of the altar ! Like the still small voice on 
Horeb, it is not in the tumult and the show, but 
in the calm of devotion, visiting the lowly and 
the humble mind. Heard not in the long, loud 
prayer, nor in the ornate and eloquent discourse 
— but breathing through the broken language of 
the unlettered, and heard in the simple petition 
of the poor, bowed widow, who lifts her thanks 
by her scanty board, or kneels on the lowest step 
of the altar. 

I wish to impress this idea upon you, that ex- 
ternal show and loud professions, and the appear- 



THE STILL S3IALL VOICE. 



157 



ance of sanctity, are not always manifestations of 
the spirit of religion ; and although we live in an 
age of far better ideas upon this subject than 
those which existed in the times of relics and pil- 
grimages and dispensations, yet it is well for us 
to guard against the delusion of anything like the 
principles of those dark ages. 

But I mentioned another topic under this head, 
viz., that we must not mistake great excitement 
for religion. I do not say that there is no reli- 
gion in excitements, but I say that I fear many 
greatly mistake every religious excitement for 
the operation of pure religion. Religion, in my 
view of it, is a gradual work, and does not be- 
come deep-rooted in the soul and exercise su- 
preme sway instantaneously. As to true excite- 
ment in religion, I would express my opinion in 
the language of an eloquent preacher of the day. 
" Every prayer,-' says he, " of a Christian at once 
perfectly rational and perfectly devoted — every 
prayer is an excitement ; and every religious ser- 
vice, every sermon, is an excitement as great as 
he can well bear; and every day's toil of virtue, 
and contemplation of piety, is a great and glori- 
ous excitement." "Excitements" in religion!" 
adds he — " Are they to be things occasional, and 
separated by the distance of years ? Is a man to 
be excited about religion only in a certain month, 
14 



158 



DISCOtTKSES. 



or in the winter; and when that month or that 
winter is past — yes, when all nature is bursting 
into life, and beauty, and songs of praise — is the 
religious feeling of the people to be declining 
into worse than wintry coldness and death ? 

" Let us have excitements in religion — but 
then let them be such as may be daily renewed, 
as never need to die away." The excitements 
of the christian religion, says he — " if they be 
like those that appeared in the great Teacher, 
are to be deep, sober, strong and habitual. Such 
excitements may God ever grant us ; not periodi- 
cal, but perpetual ; not transient, but enduring ; 
not for times and seasons only, but for life ; not 
for life only, but for eternity !" 

I say, my hearers, these words express my 
opinion. I fear that many look for religion 
in that excitement which is not " deep, sober, 
strong, and habitual" — but which is periodical 
and violent, and the effects of which soon pass 
away. I repeat, that I do not say that religion is 
never found here— but I would bid those who 
are seeking for religion in violent, and what ap- 
pear to me to be unnatural excitements, I bid 
them examine the matter, and see if this be not 
a mistaken search, when Eeligion, with " a still 
small voice," is calling them, unheard amid the 
excitement. Remember Horeb. The wind, the 



THE STILL SMALL VOICE. 



1-59 



earthquake, and the flame passed by, but the 
Lord spake in " a still small voice.*' Look to it, 
and see if a careful improvement of the ordinary 
means which God has given — a steady advance- 
ment in religion — a gradual and pure change 
within — a proper and rational excitement — be 
not the right methods of securing the religious 
principle. 

III. Lastly. I would remark that conscience 
is the " still small voice." which, either in tones 
of peace or of condemnation, speaks to men. It 
}s, I say, a still small voice ; but it utters close 
to the ear of the soul, and it is heard audibly and 
distinctly, above the suggestions of passion and 
false reasoning within, and all the tumult with- 
out. The still small voice of conscience ! — how 
has it wrought agony in the bosoms of the guilty 7 ! 
How has it been felt, thrilling all the recesses of 
the soul with that which is far more terrible than 
the cold embrace of the fetter, or even the keen 
edge of the death-axe ! How much more dread- 
ful are its horrors than the gloomy frown of the 
dungeon, or the uplifted scaffold ! How does it 
haunt the murderer, speaking so low and secretly, 
and yet felt above all the busy occupation and 
noisy pageantry that move around him! Is he 
in the wilderness ? — his solitude is peopled with 



160 • DISCOURSES. 

awful memories — shadowy yet distinct— and 
dreadful forms, haunting him with fixed and hid- 
eous gaze ! Is he in the city ? — lo ! it is a dark 
solitude around him. He sits down alone, as by 
a judgment-seat, with that voice, that still small 
voice, continually uttering condemnation in his 
ears. How vain the endeavor to choke and bury 
the burning evidences of his guilt which throng 
up within himself, by looking upon the gay, 
bright world without ! The murmuring of the 
breeze is fearfully like the voice of the dead — 
the record of the deed is written in glittering 
lines upon every cloud, and a red and upreared 
hand beckons him from the crest of every wave ! 
Oh ! the tortures of a guilty conscience, though 
uttered all so secretly and small ! Who that 
is guilty has not felt it ? And if not guilty of 
what men call crime, who is not guilty of break- 
ing that high law of God ? — guilty of alienation 
from and neglect of Him? Whose conscience 
does not speak of this ? And if he is thus guilty, 
does he not know, that to purify the deep princi- 
ple and motive within, is to still that accusing 
voice and cause it to breathe peace and joy ? 
Does he not know, that until he does this, he 
carries within him a hell he should greatly 
dread ? 

But we spoke not only of conscience as a con- 



THE STILL SMALL VOICE. 



161 



demning voice— it is also one of great consola- 
tion to the upright and trusting mind. Oh ! 
sweet are the tones which it utters to the inno- 
cent ! Like an angel-voice, it comes to them 
with the early light, and discourses through all 
the day, and bids farewell at night— nay, it 
speaks in all their dreams. What, compara- 
tively, are the outward cares, the busy changes, 
the physical convulsions which occur, to him 
who possesses that inestimable treasure— a pure 
conscience ? His soul is unharmed amid all the 
dangers of the universe. He passes unhurt amid 
the lion's den — unscathed through the fiery fur- 
nace. Oh ! to stand when trials and afflictions 
are thickening around- — when carking cares are 
blighting the beautiful flowers of existence, and 
clouds are veiling the pleasant sun— to be able to 
stand and look up to God, with a consciousness 
of love to and harmony with Him, and to look 
within and find all right there— to behold the 
whirlwind and the earthquake and the flame 
sweep by, and yet, unharmed, to hear the words 
of the Lord in the still small voice— this is hap- 
piness, and peace, and heaven. 

How kindly has religion spoken to souls 
like these, when all the World without was dark 
and perilous ! And to the penitent, who has 
turned his straying feet and unlocked his obdu- 
14* 



162 



DISCOURSES. 



rate heart — who has stood appalled and terrified 
at the strong wind, and heard condemnation in 
the rumbling earthquake, and waited to see an 
eye of wrath in the glancing flame— how sweet, 
how solemn, how nealingly has come that still 
small voice of God— his Father— speaking to 
him in tones of mercy and forgiveness ! » 

Strive, then, hearer, to cultivate a good, an 
approving conscience— strive, in other words, for 
religious life. You are then prepared for all the 
changes of existence, for the dark time of death, 
and the ranks of heaven. Cares may blight 
your hopes, sorrow may darken your day, disap- 
pointment may chequer your path ; yea, the 
whirlwind may rend and break in pieces the 
solid mountain— the earthquake may convulse 
nature— flame may curtain the vast horizon, and 
thunders rock the mighty universe— but the still 
small voice will speak to you of peace, and joy, 
and heaven ; and you shall stand trusting, and 
happy, and calm, amid it alL 



DISCOURSE VIII. 



peter's denial. 

Luke xxii. 57. — And he denied him, saying. Woman, I 
know him not, 

The events which preceded the establishment 
of the Gospel were drawing to a close. The 
prayer and the agony of Gethsemane were past, 
and Jesus was deserted and alone. One had 
" followed him afar off' 1 — one, too, who had em* 
phatically declared, that even to the death he 
would acknowledge him. But the time of trial 
had come— the hour when persecution or death 
threatened him who should own the name or 
cling to the person of the despised Nazarene j 
and Peter, who had thus zealously avowed his 
determination to adhere to him, when charged 
with being one of his disciples, had, agreeably to 
the prediction of our Lord, " denied him, saying, 
Woman, I know him not." 

Commissioned as the Savior was— occupying 
the position that he does in the economy of Re- 
demption—far be it from us to make a compari- 
son whereby we may lessen his authority in the 
minds of any, or speak too familiarly of him. 



164 



BiscouKsfls* 



But, as " he was tempted in all points as We are 3 
yet without sin;" as he suffered and sympa- 
thized for and with us — we may not improperly 
conjecture the feelings which must have pos- 
sessed his soul, as he looked around him, and 
beheld the darkness that gathered about his clos- 
ing hour. The crown of thorns, the mockery, 
the buffeting and insult were before him. The 
iron hands of a rude and cruel soldiery were 
upon him. The cross waited for him, with its 
ignominy, its agony and death. But friendship, 
sympathy, might have brightened even these 
moments, and made the draught less bitter. 
Good men, who have w r alked to the scaffold, and 
"lifted up untrembling hands amid the flame,' 7 
have felt the keenness of their anguish blunted 
by the kind words of sympathy, and have heard 
low voices of affection encouraging them in their 
last hours, and bidding them even a triumphant 
farewell. But not one friend gathered around 
the meek and lowly Jesus ! Of all that he had 
healed— of all those whose hearts he had made 
glad — not one came to cheer his lone and bitter 
hour of- agony. The withered hands he had 
restored to strength were not stretched out for 
him. The sightless eyes that he had opened 
shed no tears for his great sorrow. The tuneless 
voices that he had made to sing uttered then no 



peter's denial. 165 

lamentations. But his followers — his most inti- 
mate companions — they too had fled. Often as 
he had taught them upon the mountain-side and 
on the sea-shore — often as he had broken bread 
with them, and led their untutored minds on in 
the way of heavenly truth ; they were not there 
in their Master's tribulation. And he, too — he 
who had so vehemently protested that, at all 
events, he w T ould acknowledge and be with him — 
he, too, had denied him, and left him alone. 
" While Peter was uttering these asseverations," 
says a recent writer, " his Master was suffering 
the greatest indignities. The cruel hands of 
those ruffians were raining blows upon him, ac- 
companied by every species of insult. In the 
midst of this violence, his ear caught the sound 
of a familiar voice, pouring forth oaths and curses. 
It was Peter, the affectionate, forward, boastful 
Peter, who, in this violent manner, and in the 
presence of that brutal company, was denying all 
knowledge of Jesus. Judging from his recent 
professions, we should expect that, at the first 
blush of insult offered to his Master, he would 
have sprung forward and defended him at the 
hazard of his life." " But" Jesus " was prepared 
for it. He knew the weakness of Peter. He 
uttered no exclamation of surprise, no reproach 
at his faithlessness." " Had he been any other 



166 



DISCOURSES. 



than the perfectly magnanimous being that he 
was, he would naturally have contradicted the" 
. . . 44 falsehoods of Peter." " But so far was he 
above everything of this kind, so far above all 
selfishness and anger, that he merely turned and 
looked at Peter. Those eyes . . . were turned 
full, in all their awful clearness and serenity, 
upon the apostate disciple, and they dissolved his 
heart in the tears of an agonizing repentance." 

Such were the peculiar circumstances with 
which the text is connected. We might profita- 
bly pause here, and contemplate the exhibition 
which they give us of the character of Christ. 
We might well have our hearts softened, and 
our affections moved, by the Savior's sufferings 
and sacrifice for us, We might wonder at the 
love, and meek obedience, and high and holy 
resolution, that triumphed over Roman ignominy 
and Jewish persecution ; yea, that rendered him 
victorious, in the calm beauty and holiness of 
his character, even when his most intimate and 
zealous friends had deserted and denied him. 
Thus might we go from the judgment-hall and 
the cross, with our affections aroused, our devo- 
tion stirred, and our faith strengthened, by the 
memories and associations, that, with their 
blessed influences, ever linger there. But, strong 
and holy as they are, we do not intend, at this 



Peter's denial. 



167 



time, to dwell particularly upon the circumstances 
connected with the text. We think that Peter's 
denial of his Master, which is the special subject 
before us, affords lessons that we may profitably 
ponder. 

I. And without further introduction, we would 
remark, that it teaches us the uncertainty and 
deceitfulness of our best resolutions. We know 
that the announcement of his determination to 
follow our Lord even unto the death, was in 
Peter no studied outburst of affected zeal — no 
empty profession of hypocrisy. It was fervent 
and sincere. He loved his Master, and when 
Jesus spoke of the trials that w T ere soon to gather 
around him, he exclaimed, " Lord, I am ready to 
go with thee, both into prison and to death." 
Peter, doubtless, felt this. But the Lord knew 
what was in man. He knew Peter, better than 
that disciple knew himself. He foresaw his apos- 
tasy. He had seen that Satan desired to have 
him, that he might sift him as wheat ; he told 
him that he had prayed for him, that his faith 
should not fail ; and he enjoined upon him, w r hen 
he was converted, to strengthen his brethren. 
In reply to this Peter made his protestation of 
devotion to his Master, and the Lord uttered the- 
emphatic prediction- — " I tell thee. Peter, the 



168 



DISCOURSES. 



cock shall not crow this day, before thou shall 
thrice deny that thou knowest me." 

And yet Peter clung to Jesus when others 
appear to have fallen away. But trials that, 
probably, in his zeal he had not foreseen, sprung 
up in his way. Crowds of remorseless persecu- 
tors gathered around his Lord. The chief 
priests and the elders, the captains and the cruel 
soldiery came, and his strength began to fail. 
When they took Jesus and carried him to the 
high priest's house, we find the disciple follow- 
ing, it is true, but he follows afar off, and sits 
down among others around the fire in the hall. 
And now comes the trial which is to sweep 
away his confident resolution, and prove the 
truth of the Savior's prophecy. A maiden, look- 
ing earnestly at him, exclaims — " This man was 
also with him." Moved by fear of persecution 
or death, or from shame, or from some sud- 
den impulse — -the cause we will not pretend 
to declare ; the principle is the same— Peter ex- 
claims, in the language of the text, " Woman, I 
know him not." But the excuse of a sudden 
emotion, a hasty impulse, appears not to avail 
here — for, after a little while, another sees him, 
and says, "Thou also art of them." And Peter 
says, " Man, I am not." An hour is allowed 
him for reflection. An opportunity is given him 



peter's denial, 



169 



to own his Master yet. But the prediction of 
Jesus must be accomplished. For another, after 
that space of time, exclaims — " Of a truth this 
fellow also was with him ; for he is a Galilean." 
Says Peter, " Man, I know not what thou 
sayest." And while he yet speaks, the cock 
crows. 

And oh ! as the Lord turned upon him that 
thrilling, rebuking look, and the memory of the 
prediction rushed at once upon him — " Before 
the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice" — 
how did that heart swell with penitent anguish 
— how gushed the tears from their fountains, 
scarce repressed before those stern faces around 
him, as he went out and wept bitterly ! No 
word was uttered — no spoken rebuke was given 
by the sufferer whom even he had denied — but a 
look, a calm, mild, meaning look, was turned 
upon him, and it pierced his heart ; and amid 
the many bitter thoughts that throbbed in his 
hour of repentance, perchance was the memory 
of his confident protestation, and the experience 
of the uncertainty and deceitfulness of human 
resolutions. 

My friends, Peter is not the only individual of 
our race who has felt this uncertainty and de- 
ceitfulness. Nay, I will ask — who is there that 
has not felt it ? Who is there that has not made 
15 



170 



DISCOURSES. 



some good resolution, some purpose of amend- 
ment — struggled to keep it a little while — fol- 
lowed the duty afar off, like Peter; and then 
yielded to temptation ? Happy the man who has 
formed good resolutions, and has ever adhered to 
them ! We fear that such are few. 

Now I would not weaken confidence in our 
own ability to mark out a certain course in our 
minds and adhere to it. That this is frequently 
done, I doubt not. There are many who have 
thus triumphed. There is a nobility, a greatness 
about him who carries out his object, that can 
never attach to the timid and vacillating man. 
There have been those who have taken a posi- 
tion and maintained it. They would have moved 
the world had you but given them the lever of 
Archimedes. Luther would go to the Diet of 
Worms in the face of all opposition, and to the 
Diet of Worms he went. Columbus, give him 
but the vessels, would cross an unknown sea in 
pursuit of a new world — and the means being 
furnished, he crossed. Napoleon would pass the 
bridge of Lodi, despite the volleying cannon — 
and in the flame and smoke he passed. These 
are the effects of firm resolutions — the springs 
and sinews of strong minds — the germs of mighty 
deeds. But it is true, that upon the point of 
moral and religious action men fail most in their 



feter's denial, 



171 



resolutions. We think we may say, that there 
is no man who has not failed upon this point. 
He has become fully aware that he is in the indul- 
gence of some particular sin. He feels that that 
sin clogs up the fountains of spiritual life within 
him, and fetters the higher faculties of his nature, 
and he resolves that he will break from it — that 
he will crush and destroy it. He wrestles man- 
fully with it. He wars against it, by reason and 
self-denial, by prayers and tears. But, anon, 
there comes some pleasant temptation — his feet 
sink into some alluring snare — and lo ! that sin 
again*is coiled around him — and he finds that he 
has cause, like Peter, to go out and weep bit- 
terly. 

But he must strive again. A warrior of the 
cross, he must battle against it with weapons that 
are "mighty through God to the pulling down 
of strong holds." From the depths of his fall he 
should gather strength, and from the bitterness 
of repentance he should extract a healing medi- 
cine for his soul. Vea, like the disciple, peni- 
tent for his aposta§y, his zeal for his Master 
should be redoubled — he should, when converted, 
strengthen others ; and, in his sphere, he also 
may be a rock on which a church shall be built. 

But we should learn humility from the, fact 
which we are considering. We should learn 



172 



DISCOURSES. 



humility, and a deep distrustfulness of our best 
resolutions, and the need of grace, and watchful- 
ness, and industry, and prayer. It ill becomes 
us to say, when we see others yielding to snares, 
and falling from the upright course — " I know 1 
shall never yield to that temptation ; I am strong 
there." For, despite all our boasted confidence 
— despite the panoply of stern virtue that we 
have girded around us ; this may be the very 
point upon which we shall fail — the vulnerable 
spot through which the arrow of temptation shall 
reach us. And how will the bitterness of our 
remorse increase in pungency, as we reflect that 
this was the very point upon which we vaunted 
ourselves — concerning which we said, " I shall 
never fail." Think you that there have not been 
instances of, this kind ? There has been, per- 
haps, many a young man, the pride of his parents, 
the loved of his friends, brought up in respecta- 
bility, under an enlightened, religious education. 
And, with all the impressions of deep moral 
culture upon him — with all the safeguards of 
respectability and honor— with all the high gifts 
of love and friendship — he has gone out into the 
great mart of life. A station of important trust 
has been confided to him. The respect and af- 
fection of his kindred, the confidence and esteem 
of his friends, have been the safeguards with 



Peter's denial. 



173 



which he entered upon that trust—and • who 
would think that he would yield to temptation ? 
Year after year rolls by, and but name such a 
result and he would spurn you from him. But 
alas ! alas ! our weakness. Temptation, in a form 
that he had never dreamed of — w T ith a power and 
influence that he had never felt before, assails 
him — coils itself about his heart — drains, one by 
one, the emotions of honor, or drugs them into a 
fatal sleep ; — he yields— he falls— he is ruined ! 

Is not this the history of many a life ? And 
what does it teach us ? That we are liable to 
yield to temptation. And oh ! how deeply liable 
in matters that pertain to our spiritual interests. 
Here how often do w T e grow cold— how often do 
we fall away— how often do we slide back ; yea, 
and perhaps, like Peter, deny our Lord ! We 
cannot, my hearers, we cannot watch too closely, 
or cultivate too much these subtle hearts of ours. 
It is only by the strong aid of religion— by the 
aid of those principles and powers that we receive 
at the feet of Christ, that we can hope to remain 
stable, and to triumph. As I have already said, 
I would not excite an unreasonable distrust of 
ourselves — I would not have any become timid, 
vacillating, and weak, because we are frail. 
But I would have each one humble, watchful 
prayerful, strong. I would have each one beware 
15* 



174 



DISCOURSES. 



of a rash confidence— of a trust in the perma* 
nency of a good resolution) that will fail him, and 
add to his bitterness by the memory of that very 
confidence, so boastful, so vain. JThe humility 
which I would inculcate from the present con- 
sideration, is no weak feeling. It enables us bet* 
ter to discharge all the duties of life, because in 
its calm security we find a guard against all the 
assaults of temptation which we are prone to 
lack when we trust to a rash and headlong confi- 
dence in our own integrity. Like the anxious 
but wary traveller, who looks eagerly forward to 
the goal of his journey, yet cautiously ascertains 
that his path is clear from obstacles which may 
hinder and throw him back in his course ; the 
Christian pilgrim, in the exercise of true humility* 
while his glances and his hopes are all heaven- 
ward, and his ardor urges him on, still looks low 
and carefully, and keeps a thought to the perils 
that encompass his feet, and is not so lifted up 
and so rash as to hurry boastfully forward with- 
out thought and without circumspection. 

This, then, is one truth which we educe from 
the event recorded in the text. We learn to re* 
gard with a reasonable distrust our best resolu- 
tions—to feel that without watchfulness, prayer, 
striving, respectable as we may be — honorable 
and firm as are our motives-— we may yield to 



Peter's denial. 



175 



temptation, and fall. This, while it is a peculiar 
iesson for the Christian, is a precept for all men-, 
and may be carried out in all the transactions 
and all the duties of life. " Let him that thinketh 
he standeth, take heed lest he fall." Let each 
one be wary, diligent, active, in looking to his 
thoughts and his motives. 

II. Another lesson which we may learn from 
the text, although, perhaps, not legitimately 
deduced from it, yet, we think, not inappropriate, 
is that, taught by our own liability to yield to 
temptation, when ethers fall we should regard 
their failings in a charitable light — though we 
may censure their conduct, and punish them for 
their actions. I do not— you know I do not — 
intend by this remark to say that the full weight 
of retribution should not fall upon the transgres- 
sor. We must have regard in this to the general 
welfare— to vital principles, which it will not do 
to peril by the exercise of a weak and misjudging 
mercy. None but God can see the heart, and 
tell when the transgressor has truly reformed and 
is penitent indeed, and, therefore, punishment is 
not for him required, Man cannot do this ; and 
when the violator of his country's laws comes 
before his tribunal and the law condemns him, a 
regard for the general welfare calls upon him to 



176 



DISCOURSES, 



pass sentence. For yon will see that the hw 7 
properly, standing above the affections and inte- 
rests of men, holds the scales of impartial justice, 
in which the acts of all must be weighed, with- 
out reference to the fact, so far as this act is con- 
cerned, whether the accused has been heretofore 
respectable or worthless— the question of guih, 
guilt alone is concerned ; and, when that guilt is 
ascertained, to say to one man- — " I believe you 
are penitent — you have violated the law, but I 
think you are sorry and have reformed" — would 
be to say to him likewise who, to escape punish- 
ment, might assume the mask of hypocrisy,- — " I 
believe you are innocent." For, we say, the 
heart cannot be read, and the outward conduct is 
all that can be judged of. So, every man who 
might commit a guilty act has but to assume a 
penitent demeanor, and justice would equally call 
upon all to be discharged. This could not be ; and 
so, however real the penitence and reformation 
of the offender may be, as that penitence and 
reformation cannot be certainly ascertained, in 
order that others may not escape he must be pun- 
ished. Human frailty renders this necessary— 
the interests of community call for it. Having thus 
shown the grounds of punishment, and insisted 
that, in all general cases, it should be inflicted , 
the remarks that I shall proceed to make under 



peter's denial. 



177 



this head will be cleared, I hope, from all mis- 
construction. 

We say, then, that we fear there is prevalent in 
•community a disposition to load down with infa- 
my, and to pursue with the bitterest feeling, the 
name of the man who falls from respectability 
and honor by yielding to temptation. You recol- 
lect the narrative, in the New Testament, of the 
woman taken in the commission of a crime — and 
how they all gathered around her, as if to triumph 
at her downfall, and to inflict the punishment. 
And you remember, too, the remark of our Lord — 
" He that is without sin among you, let him first 
cast a stone at her." Now we do not suppose 
that our Savior meant to say, that this sin did not 
deserve punishment, or that men, because they 
are sinful, should not inflict retribution on the 
one who commits an overt act of guilt — this, I 
say, we do not suppose was the point at which 
Jesus aimed. But there was an opportunity for 
a lesson even more important than that of punish- 
ment, and he took occasion to rebuke that bad spirit 
manifested, which seemed not to think so much 
of the precise guilt of the crime- — not so much 
of the principle sacrificed or endangered— as it 
did of the triumph it enjoyed in beholding a fel- 
low-creature fallen, while it stood innocent of this 
guilt, or, perhaps, only undetected ; this bad 



178 



DISCOURSES. 



spirit, I say, that looked beyond the mere punisn- 
merit of the offence, as a just retribution for a 
crime- — a retribution that should reform the offen- 
der and be a warning to others— that looked be- 
yond this, and seemed to gloat over the detected 
guilt, the marred and crushed beauty of a human 
soul. This spirit, my hearers, needs to be rebuked, 
whenever and wherever it may be manifested. 
And, I repeat, I fear that this disposition is preva- 
lent in community at this day. We will take 
the same instance which we supposed under the 
first head- — the young man who, you will recol- 
lect, notwithstanding his respectability, his educa- 
tion, his high principle of honor, his kindred and 
his friends, yielded to temptation and fell. Now, 
of those who cry aloud for his punishment, how 
many desire that punishment from a pure, un- 
mixed sense of justice ? Haw many sinister and 
wrong feelings blend with the words that an- 
nounce his downfall ? " Ah ! " thinks one to 
himself, " that man, a few days ago, held his 
head above me — he would not notice me in the 
streets ; but he has fallen now— he is much lower 
than L" This man would not on any account 
give utterance to this sentiment ; he will go forth 
to say that he " pities the man, but justice must 
be done ;" — and yet, how unconsciously, but how 
surely, does this deeper, more bitter emotion ©J 



petek's dental, 



179 



his heart choke up his sense of justice, and 
poison that which otherwise would have been a 
fountain of sincere, unaffected pity ! 

Another, perhaps, has been injured by the 
fallen man ; — and that old, burning revenge is the 
feeling gratified — not a sense of pure, unalloyed 
justice. 

And so we might go on, analyzing the differ- 
ent motives which prompt men to be loud and 
eloquent whenever a fellow-creature falls from 
his elevation in society. Yet, perhaps, we should 
not get at all the causes of the vague feeling 
that takes possession of the public mind when 
such a fall occurs. We allude to the almost uni- 
versal prejudice that possesses the minds of com- 
munity towards one who is accused of a crime 
or a misdemeanor — especially if he has had here- 
tofore no peculiar hold upon popular affection — 
is a stranger — is poor ; or if from some cause he 
has become unpopular previous to this result. 
Now, I contend that a charitable feeling should 
always predominate, let that man be who he may. 
We should not suffer our prejudices or our pas- 
sions to get the advantage of our better feelings, 
so far as to blind us to any palliating circumstance 
that may lie in his case. While moral feeling 
calls loudly for justice, we should not forget to 
pity, and to hoid charity. And I ground this 



ISO 



DISCOURSES. 



remark upon the truth that we have already had 
tinder consideration, namely, our own liability to 
falter in our best resolutions, and to yield to 
temptation. Place yourselves in his situation. 
You have committed a misdemeanor — yea, per- 
haps, a crime. You go back, in thought, and 
trace all the circumstances that led to this act. 
You see the very hour when the first temptation 
knocked at the door of your heart. You witness 
your strivings, your labors, your prayers against 
it, But you yielded— and behold your downfall ! 
You feel that the punishment that must come 
upon you is just. You could yield to it— you 
could bear its ignominy, bitter as it is to your 
soul — almost without a murmur. But you hope 
that if men condemn they will at least pity you. 
You look for this, and you see only hard, stern 
faces scowling or sneering upon you — bent in 
reproof, not such as weeping angels give, but like 
those who know no pity. And yet, these very 
men are not immaculate- — these very men may 
need this pity that they refuse ; they are frail 
and liable, like you. And oh ! how bitter is your 
anguish — that you must bear your punishment, 
not only in its ignominy and its suffering, but 
unpitied, uncared for ! 

I would have the exercise of a gentle, a 
christian charity for the faults of others, more 



PETER S DENIAL. 



181 



prevalent and active. How crushing, how deso- 
late must be his lot, who has not been guilty of 
a crime, but who, yielding to temptation, has com- 
mitted some misdemeanor for which society is 
but too ready to hunt him down, and to shut him 
out from its sympathy ! What are his thoughts ? 
He has done that for which he is sorry— against 
which he powerfully struggled — he sincerely be- 
lieves he has reformed. But such are the un- 
bending and adamantine rules of society, that he 
never can be re-admitted within the pale of re- 
spectability. He is poor— he has no influence. 
His hopes are blighted in the bud. His bright 
dreams have faded in darkness. Unhonored, un- 
loved, he must live, and when he dies, no tear 
shall fall above him ; and men will little heed, 
when they tread upon the green sod of the out- 
cast's grave, the sorrow, the bitter penitence, the 
keen remorse, that rankled so long in the heart 
that moulders beneath. 

My friends, there have been many thus slain 
by neglect, who, in their repentant state, might 
have lived happy and respected — there have been 
many driven into crime, whom a charitable word, 
a pitying tear, a soft hand, would have led back 
to be ornaments and benefactors of society. 

No one will gather from this, that, because he 
has yielded to temptation, he is only to be pitied, 
16 



182 



DISCOURSES. 



and is not guilty. He is guilty, and deep in his 
heart should he sorrow and repent. If not, if he 
still goes on to sin, and by his acts becomes cal- 
lous in iniquity, he deserves punishment — he 
must look for retribution. But let us all, remem- 
bering our own frailties, look charitably upon the 
frailties of others. Consider how we have often 
denied our Lord ; yet has he been merciful to us, 
and turned upon us a mild, reproving look, ready 
to forgive. Consider how often we have needed, 
how often we do need, mercy at the hands of 
our heavenly Father, and let us beware of with- 
holding that mercy from others which we re- 
quire, and which He kindly grants to us. Let 
the denial of Peter, teaching us the instability of 
our own good resolutions, also teach us, even 
while we condemn and punish, to pity others 
whose good resolutions have been swept away, 
and who have fallen into wo and ruin. 

III. Finally, let us, from the text, learn al- 
ways to acknowledge and cling to religion. 
Although we are not threatened with the perse- 
cutions that menaced Peter, or called upon to 
say whether we have been personally with Jesus, 
or not — still, we are often called upon to express 
decidedly our acknowledgment of and attachment 
to his gospel, or, in one sense, of Christ himself. 



peter's denial. 183 

Now, perchance, there are those who would be 
ashamed, in some places, and under some cir- 
cumstances, to have it known that they are 
Christians — are religious. Why, they would be 
laughed at, jeered, sneered at ; and so they join 
in the laugh, saying to those who ask them, 
" I know him not." Now what a spirit is this ! 
■ — and what a strange idea ! Ashamed of reli- 
gion ? Ashamed to let it be known that you 
consider spiritual and eternal things above things 
earthly and temporal ? — that you love to put by 
the vanities and cares of the world, and hold 
communion with God, the best Being in the uni- 
verse ? Ashamed to have it known that you 
act, as the prime rule of your conduct, upon the 
great law of love to God and love to man ? 
Ashamed of this, which is your most honorable 
badge, and that shall shine immortal and fadeless 
when all these titles of empty vanity — when all 
these mockeries of rank and fashion, shall be abol- 
ished forever — shall have crumbled into dust? 
Ashamed of that in which apostles and martyrs 
have gloried, for which they fought, for which 
they died — to which they clung in their last 
moments* shouting " Victory ! " Oh ! is religion 
with you a matter so temporary, so worldly, so 
superficial, as that the fear of a laugh, the dread 
of a sneer, shall cause you to deny it ? Far 



284 



DISCOURSES, 



more weak than Peter are you, hearer— am I— if 
we thus say of Jesus, " I know him not." Let 
us ever acknowledge and cling to religion, wher- 
ever we may be. Let us not wear it ostenta- 
tiously, in a spirit of self-righteousness — but 
wear it openly, with the light of its own calm 
beauty around us ; and vice shall turn away 
abashed from us, and the sneer will be checked^ 
and the laugh perchance changed to the tear of 
penitence. Let no one deny Christ. If he is 
not a Christian, let him strive to become one. 
Let him become one this day, this hour ; and 
let him follow his Master at all seasons. And 
not only in word, but in action and thought, let 
him ever acknowledge him— let him never deny 
him, or be ashamed of him. 

" Ashamed of Jesus ! that dear friend, 
On whom my hopes of heaven depend 1 
Oh, when I blush, be this my shame. 
That I no more revere his name ! 

Ashamed of Jesus ! sooner, far, 
Let evening blush to own a star — 
7 T is midnight with my soul, till he, 
Bright Morning Star, bids darkness flee. 

Ashamed of Jesus ! yes, I may, 
When I 've no sin to wash away, 
No ill to shun, no good to crave, 
No guilt to mourn, no soul to save, 



Peter's denial. 



185 



Till then — nor is my boasting vain— 
Till then I boast a Savior slain — 
And oh ! may this my glory be. 
That Christ is not ashamed of me ! " 

Let these lines breathe the deep sentiment of 
all our hearts, my friends. And if we do turn 
aside — if we do ever deny Jesus — may God in 
mercy regard us and forgive us ; may his Spirit 
gently lead us back ; and may the blessed coun^ 
tenance of the Redeemer, turned full upon us, 
thrill us with sorrow, fill our hearts with throbs 
of penitence, and cause us so to repent as that 
we shall find true rest and peace in our souls ! 
Amen ! 

16* 



DISCOURSE IX. 



THE PASTORAL OFFICE. 



PREACHED IN ROXBURY, AT THE ORDINATION OF REV. €. H. FX.V. 



2 Timothy it. 2. — Preach the word; he instant in season? 
©ut of season ; reprove, rebuke, exhort with all long-suffering 
and doctrine. 

Called upon as we are at this time to par- 
ticipate in an interesting and solemn service— to 
join in those ceremonies which custom has sanc- 
tioned as the public assumption and recognition 
of the relation of pastor and people ; our text 
will be deemed appropriate as the basis of a 
discourse adapted to the occasion. The circum- 
stances under which it was originally penned 
are deeply affecting. It was written by the great 
Apostle of the Gentiles, in the bonds of a rigorous 
imprisonment, and in the face of a violent death. 
The last words of the great and good are always 
precious. Those who have labored, and fought, 
and sacrificed all their lives, for their fellow-men r 
when they come to lay down their hardens and 
bid the world farewell, in the precepts that drop 
from their dying lips will be sure to bequeath it 
a rich legacy of love and truth— rich, if in 
nothing else, as a testimony and example of how 
the righteous finish their course. And these? 



THE PASTORAL OFFICE. 



1S7 



according to a very general opinion, were the 
last words of Paul. And what an ardent devo- 
tion, what a triumphant faith do they manifest! 
They blend consistently with the whole tenor of 
his christian race, and lend beauty to its closing 
hours. With an unfaltering bravery, from the 
moment in which the scales fell from his eyes 
and he became a new man in Christ, Saul of 
Tarsus had wrought for the gospel. No threats 
could daunt him, no sufferings prevent. The 
maledictions of the kindred Jew, the sneers of 
the stranger Gentile, had no terror for him. He 
utters his convictions of the Living God, unawed 
by the imposing aspect of philosophy, or the 
splendor of heathen worship ; and he lifts his 
fettered hands for Jesus in the presence of 
kings. Scourged, incarcerated, beaten with rods, 
stoned, and shipwrecked ; perilled by sea and 
land, by countrymen and strangers, in city and 
in wilderness ; " in weariness and painfulness, in 
watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings 
often, in cold and nakedness ;" he seems utterly 
to have stripped off and thrown aside self — his * 
sympathies are wholly absorbed in his great 
work ; and not the least chord was touched, af- 
fecting the cause of his Master, the interests of 
his gospel, that did not thrill to his heart. 

And if we pause and contemplate him here, we 
shall find an irresistible testimony to the truth and 
vitality of our religion. The career of this man 
could not have been the dream of the enthusiast, 
or the hardihood of the impostor. Nought but 
the memory of a solemn reality — nought but a 
conviction that pressed upon his soul like a burn- 



188 



DISCOURSES. 



ing stamp — could have made the boasting, blood- 
thirsty Pharisee change his course, and labor and 
suffer thus. But this is not all. We are brought 
now to his closing hour. Here is the great trial 
of his faith. Surely the impostor, with no 
chance of release, with every consideration that 
could have urged him on withered at his feet, 
would not brave it out any longer, and rush upon 
the very barbs of death. Surely the enthusiast 
would expect some visible triumph to attend him 
> — some bright glory to linger around his dying 
moments. Surely the traitor, when everything 
that could excite interest, or pamper pride, had 
vanished from his dungeon, would draw back 
and recant. Is it so with Paul ? No ! — aged, 
worn, and beaten with the storms of life — aching 
with wounds that had been branded upon him in 
his many conflicts ; with a vision clear and un- 
faltering, he looks beyond the outward and the 
temporal— on and up he looks, exclaiming, "I 
am now ready to be offered, and the time of my 
departure is at hand. I have fought a good 
% fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the 
faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me a 
crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the 
righteous Judge, shall give me at that day." 
He knew in whose cause he had suffered these 
things, and said he, " Nevertheless, I am not 
ashamed : for I know whom I have believed, and 
am persuaded that He is able to keep that which 
I have committed unto Him against that day." 
Thus, with all these memories of affliction 
around him — with, perhaps, the jaw of the lion 
waiting for him in the amphitheatre, and the hand 



THE PASTORAL OFFICE. 



189 



of brutal cruelty at his very door; so loved he 
his religion — so convinced was he of its truth 
and efficacy — so anxious was he that it should 
be diffused among men, and go down through all 
their generations ; that, from the depths of that 
* Roman prison — in his farewell with his dearest 
earthly friend, he exclaims, " Preach the Word ; 
be instant in season, out of season ; reprove, re- 
buke, exhort, with all long-suffering and doc- 
trine." 

. This was christian faith — this was the effect 
of that gospel to aid in the support and propaga- 
tion of which we have assembled here to-day. 
It has lived through ages. The apostle has 
long since gone to his rest. We know not the 
place of his tomb. But the matter of his labors 
we know — their substance is yet with us. Let 
us be thankful for it, and faithful to it ! 

Passing from the immediate circumstances of 
the text, we shall take for our theme, in this 
discourse, the Pastoral Office. In speaking of 
this, to which appertain duties both in and out 
of the pulpit, it is quite probable that, as a party 
interested, I may not judge and teach with that 
strict impartiality which the topic demands. I 
desire you, however, in any case, to supply in 
your own minds the essential omissions, and to 
forego the erroneous commissions. Neither will 
I profess to say all that can be said upon this 
subject. But in what I do say, may I have the 
guidance of conscience and of God ; and may 
each one of us who has taken up the ministry of 
the Word, be led to improve in future practice 
what may now be defective in theory ? 



190 



DISCOURSES. 



I. Without further introduction, let me re- 
mark, in the first place, that the pastoral office is 
a necessary and beneficial institution. There 
are those, my friends, who would abolish the 
priesthood as a distinct profession, and make all 
men teachers, as they may be moved to speak. * 
The arguments brought in favor of this position 
are certainly ingenious and forcible, but we deem 
them founded, like many other ingenious and 
forcible arguments, in the errors of the system to 
which they are opposed, and not in any radical 
defect in the system itself. Now, I beseech you, 
do not look upon me as assuming the side of the 
question that I do from interest — as a matter of 
course. If the ordaining and setting apart of a 
distinct class, to be preachers of moral truth and 
pastors of different communities, be contrary to 
reason and to revelation — to our free institutions 
and to the religion of Jesus Christ — let us all 
know it, and unite our efforts to abolish it. Far 
be it from me to live upon the slavish grounds 
of custom and credulity in this matter. I know 
not that there is anything so peculiarly luxurious 
and desirable in the lot of the christian American 
minister, that a man should wish to live in that 
lot, if the priesthood is an excrescence on society. 
I suppose that there are other functions than this 
in which a man with a mind, and two hands, and 
a brave heart, can find support and competency. 
Let me not be accused, then, of selfish and par- 
tisan motives, when I say that I deem the priest- 
hood a necessary and beneficial institution. To 
go into a formal discussion, at this time, of this 
subject, would be to fill up this whole discourse 



THE PASTORAL OFFICE. 



191 



with that which must occupy only a section of it 
But to those who would abolish the clerical in 
stitution, I would say — grant that there are evils 
flowing from this institution ; are they necessary 
evils — evils engendered as matters of course by 
the very nature of the institution ? Are they 
evils that will and must proceed from this insti- 
tution, under all modifications ? And, once more 
— are these evils greater than those which would 
ensue, were this order totally abolished? The 
answers to these questions would probably furnish 
arguments rebutting the radical position. 

What are some of the evils alleged ? That 
salaried preaching is contrary to the gospel ? A 
number of passages might be introduced, both by 
direct and inferential authority sustaining this 
institution. But time will not admit of their dis- 
cussion. "The laborer/' says Christ, "is wor- 
thy of his hire." "The laborer is worthy of 
his reward," says Paul ; and again — " Even so 
hath the Lord ordained, that they which preach 
the gospel should live of the gospel." ISow, 
whether this living and these rewards are of 
voluntary contributions of food and clothing, or 
of wages — whether they were indefinite and tem- 
porary, or permanent and settled contributions, 
the "principle is the same ; and if a regular salary 
is more convenient and adapted to circumstances 
than any other mode, in order that those who 
preach may live by the gospel, it is plainly 
allowed. In preaching the gospel gratuitously 
to one church, the apostle speaks as if he had 
virtually robbed another, because he took wages 
of the one upon which he had no direct claim, in 



192 



DISCOURSES. 



order that he might be sustained in preaching to 
the other, of which he might have lawfully 
demanded support. The precise mode in which 
the primitive minister received his hire is unim- 
portant in the present case. The lawfulness of the 
principle is all we need seek ; for many circum- 
stances and requirements that affected the teach- 
ers and believers of the gospel in its early years, 
do not affect us, and much that was applicable 
to their day is not to ours. This may be said 
especially of methods and measures — principles 
are always the same. 

Scripture, then, does not disapprove of the 
custom of salaried preaching, but, on the contrary, 
sustains it. 

But, again, is it said, that salaried preaching 
induces many who intellectually are unqualified 
for the ministry, and who are morally unworthy 
to apply to it as an indolent means of support? 
If this is the case, and perhaps it frequently is so, 
is not this the abuse of a good principle ? Is it 
not an error which may be guarded against by 
judicious preliminary measures ? I believe that 
there is, to some extent, error in the matter of 
admission to the office of the christian ministry. 
I believe that candidates are frequently admitted 
with too little intellectual preparation into this 
great field ; and I am afraid that there are some 
who enter from unworthy motives, and with too 
little of the sacred unction in their hearts. But 
to what does this admission lead? To the 
validity of the argument that would do away with 
all salaried preaching ? No ; but to the convic- 
tion that more strictness must be observed in the 



THE PASTORAL OFFICE. 



193 



ordaining of men to the ministry. Because there 
are some incapable or unworthy pastors, does 
this admission prove the validity of that argument 
that would do away with salaried preaching, and 
then throw open the doors for all to be teachers 
of religion, who may feel that they are moved to 
speak? Think you we should have no unwor- 
thy preachers then ? Yea, we should see tenfold 
confusion let loose upon us — Ranters, and Hot- 
Gospellers, and Fifth-Monarchy men, millennium 
prophets and expounders of the Apocalypse ; and 
the pulpit, instead of a peaceful altar for each 
sect, would become a platform on which men, 
seeking to build their Babel-theories, would speak 
each in a different tongue from the other. 

But is the ministry a means of indolent liveli- 
hood and support? Not to the faithful pastor. 
Not to an Oberlin, seeking his flock among the 
mountains — not to a Fenelon, succoring the 
houseless and distressed — not to any minister who 
rightly discharges his duties, and labors for the 
great end of his office. It is to him a field of 
lofty husbandry — of earnest, vigorous toil ; and to 
such, especially m this country, a salaried settle- 
ment is no sinecure. 

But, once more, is it said that salaried preach- 
ing is hostile to independent thought in the 
pastor ? This argument would apply better to 
an established religion of the state, than to any 
condition of the priesthood in this country. 
There, where so much is to be lost by dissent 
from the popular sect, free thought may be re- 
pressed, and hypocrisy nourished. But I am 
willing to acknowledge that even here, in this 
17 



194 



DISCOURSES. 



land of Puritan ashes and Puritan prayers, there 
is that in the condition of a pastor that is unfa- 
vorable to free expression of opinion. Societies 
are capricious. From one pastor, or under 
certain circumstances, they will hear opinions 
which, in another pastor, or under other circum- 
stances, they will not tolerate. In the latter 
case, the poor man, dependent upon his salary 
for his support, is cut off, with his family, to seek 
a situation elsewhere — if, in the earnestness of 
conviction, and under the pressure of duty, he has 
uttered a sentiment that crosses the hair-lines of 
opinion set in the minds of his hearers. Lite- 
rally or virtually, too, we are all wedded to creeds, 
in some instances perhaps rightly enough — and 
the effect of this is, that, unless the preacher har- 
monizes in every chord with some one of the sects, 
perchance he may look for his salary where he 
can find it. He may preach Christ as he under- 
stands him, but his doctrine must be stretched, or 
clipped, to fit the Procrustes bed of the literal or 
virtual creed, or he must find support outside 
these ecclesiastical and partisan walls. In 
these respects, although we have no established 
sect, no union of church and state, salaried 
preaching, even in our free country, may be hos 
tile to personal independence of opinion in the 
preacher. But I ask the objector to salaried 
preaching, if his issue, in this instance, is a full 
and fkir one ? I ask him if he must not go 
deeper than the establishment of salaries, to find 
the radical evil in the case ? To the salary, to 
oe sure, the preacher looks for support, and if 
this did not exist he would depend upon some- 



THE PASTORAL OFFICE. 



195 



thing else ; — but it is not the salary that shifts 
and turns and pushes him off — it is not the 
salary that becomes offended at his teachings, and 
reproaches, and excommunicates. You must 
look for the causes of these things in the people 
who control the salary. It is jealousy of opin- 
ion, not fhe custom of salaries, that is thus hos- 
tile to personal independence of thought: and 
if you would make a radical reformation vou 
must loosen the bonds that wed the popular mind 
to peculiar tenets and ideas. I do not say now 
that this can or ought to be done. I merely 
adduce it as a fact, to show how superficial is the 
argument against salaried preaching, on the 
ground that it is inimical to freedom of opinion in 
the pastor. This does not reach the mischief of 
the case. Abolish the salary, and what would 
you have ? The same jealousy of opinion still ; 
and the principle that would lead an association 
of men to withdraw their support from a teacher 
who harbors sentiments contrary to their own, 
would lead them to withdraw from hearing a 
teacher who, ^salaried, should teach doctrines 
opposed to theirs, and to flock around one who 
agrees with them. What would you gain, then, 
so far as independence of opinion is concerned ? 
Would not popularity and the love of numbers 
throw as many fetters then over free thought, as 
the love of a salary does now ? Will not the evil 
complained of exist as long as this jealousy of 
opinion shall exist? We object, then, to this 
argument against salaried preaching — because it 
does not reach the • source of the evil, and if 
practically acted upon would not accomplish the 



196 



DISCOURSES. 



desired result. It appears to me that the evils 
complained of, so far as a salary is concerned, 
are another abuse of a good principle. I believe 
that these evils can-be corrected without an aboli- 
tion of the whole system of salaried preaching. 
And I believe, moreover, that a pastor truly inde- 
pendent, truly honest and zealous in his opinions, 
will never lack for hearers or support. 

There are other objections which I might 
proceed to notice, were there time, founded upon 
remarkably expanded ideas of the knowledge and 
virtue of the age — upon the principle that every 
man should be a preacher, and that people who 
know as much as their pastors need not to be 
taught by them. Noticing only this last position, 
we would say, allowing it to be true, for the 
sake of argument, that all the people in this age 
do know as much as their pastors, and therefore 
need not to be taught by them — I conceive that it 
is the office of the preacher not merely to instruct, 
but to impress, and, by moral suasion, to enforce 
truths that are well known, until men shall not 
only know, but practise them. 

But we will not linger further about this 
discussion. We deem that the objections brought 
against a salaried and established ministry are 
fallacious. We believe it a necessary and 
beneficial institution. The study tbat is required 
for a faithful preaching of . the word, demands 
that the preacher should be set apart from the 
ordinary business and turmoil of life, into a more 
quiet sphere. The duties of pastorship — the 
visiting the sick, the comforting the afflicted, the 
praying with the living, the burying the dead^— 



THE PASTORAL OFFICE. 



197 



all these require a special minister; and this 
minister, precluded, by this occupation of his time 
and his talents, from acquiring support through 
the ordinary means, must receive that support 
from a salary. This is the idea that I have of 
the priesthood. No peculiar, mystical order of 
functionaries — no select caste above other men — ■ 
no more learned and no better, from extraneous 
circumstances, than others ; but an order of social, 
sympathizing, sincere men — devoting themselves 
to labor and sacrifice for the intellectual and moral 
welfare of their fellows, and for the glory of 
God. 

It may be thought that I have devoted too 
much time to this point, but we know that 
opinions which we have been combating have 
recently been broached among us. It is well for 
us, at a time like this, to be assured whether we 
are or are not upholding a slavish custom, 
and establishing an injurious and unauthorized 
institution. This appears to be a proper occasion 
to speak upon this matter. Let me say, in 
concluding this division of my subject, that we 
have seen that some of the objections made lie 
against the errors of this institution. The true 
pastor, so far as he has an influence, will beware 
of these errors. He will act from principle, in 
the discharge of his office — he will feel its 
sacredness and responsibility — he will feel that 
he is a man, and that he is but a man. Oh ! he 
must love his office. Its labors, its toils, its 
conflicts must still be dear to him. He must 
wear outwardly no ephod-breastplate, garnished 
with precious stones, but he must wear one 
17* 



198 



DISCOURSES. 



within, even a loving heart— a heart warm for 
God and for humanity; and this he must carry 
unchanged and unsullied through every scene ; 
* — and let this precept, as though it came from 
those sacred lips, and from that old dungeon in 
Rome, ever sound needfully in his ears—" Preach 
the word ; be instant in season, out of season ; 
reprove, rebuke, exhort, with all long-suffering 
and doctrine." 

II. Having thus shown the necessity and 
benefit of the pastoral office, and the love that the 
minister should bear for it, we proceed to speak 
of his duties in the pulpit. 

What are the objects to be attained by the 
pulpit ?— what are its duties ? We must have 
something more definite here than the answer, 
that they are to watch over and extend the 
interests of morals and religion. This is true, 
but it is a vague truth, that needs definition and 
application. We say, then, that the pulpit should 
lawfully adapt itself to circumstances, The 
preacher should look to the real wants of his 
hearers, not to their imaginary and erroneous 
ones. Some, perhaps, want nothing but splendid 
declamation, and exciting, showy themes ; — - 
otherwise, to them, a preacher is dull, trite, and 
uninteresting. But the preacher on this account 
should not neglect the matter to study the 
manner of preaching— should not leave sound 
and important truths, because familiar, and 
wander out into something new and strange, 
because grand and philosophical. Others, again, 
cry out, " Give us the gospel"— and this is right* 



THE PASTORAL OFFICE. 



199 



tightly considered— but their view of the gospe! 
is frequently quite a narrow one. In their idea, 
it only consists in quotations from Scripture, aptly 
strung together and ingeniously applied, without 
regard to their critical and real meaning, or to 
their contexts. But the preacher will not for this 
cause leave out of view the aids of reason and 
learning, the arguments from nature, and the 
helps of refinement and eloquence. The gospel 
does not consist alone in texts of Scripture — but 
it is found in all that teaches truth and wisdom; 
— in the voices of poetry and philosophy, in the 
records of experience, and in that elder Scripture 
graven on the eternal mountains, and transcribed 
in the heart. Some, again, may not want so 
much said about piety, and practical righteousness, 
and vital religion. But the preacher will not 
for this, neglect to enforce these earnestly and 
frequently, by all the strength and all the motives 
in his power. Some call such preaching 
orthodoxy, although it may come from the lips 
of an avowed opponent of orthodoxy, as that 
term is commonly applied ; but, in my opinion, 
they give orthodoxy more than peculiarly belongs 
to it. If ail vital religion belongs to orthodoxy, 
then let us all be orthodox— but if it flows, as we 
most assuredly believe it does, from other views, 
let us both preach it and practise it. 

The preacher, then, in the pulpit, will labor 
for the real wants of his hearers. His work is 
not for fashion, for popularity, for prejudice — it 
is for God and for humanity ; and what God 
commands, what humanity requires, that he 
will preach , His own conscience, his own 



200 



DISCOURSES. 



convictions are to decide in this matter, not the 
caprices of his hearers. Understand me. I hold 
to no such right for the preacher that he may 
force upon his auditors whatever he pleases to 
say, and they must sit and hear it alL No :— 
they build the house, they garnish it in an 
appropriate manner for public worship—they 
wish certain principles to be maintained there, 
that are hallowed to them by faith and by sacred 
memories. Neither do they go there to have 
their persons publicly held up to attack, their 
motives grossly impeached, their characters 
coarsely handled. And when it comes to this, 
they should speak— when any matter of dissatis- 
faction with the pastor arises, they should speak, 
and, if need be, prohibit. Independence on the 
part of a society is not compromised by inde- 
pendence on the part of the pastor. They may 
exist with harmony, certainly with as much, 
if not more, than under other circumstances. 
Let the preacher, then, speak as he thinks— 
speak as a man— speak for his duty, his whole 
duty, and abide the issue. Let him preach from 
knowledge— let him preach from the Bible- — let 
him preach from the heart ; adapting his teach- 
ings to the wants of his hearers. 

But let me say, further, that the pulpit should 
act upon the spirit of the age. Obstacles may be 
placed in the way of its influence by this very 
spirit. This is an age of great physical action— 
of trade and traffic, and worldly enterprise. 
These pursuits are calculated to drown the 
spiritual energies of men, and to limit their 
faculties to visible and material objects-— to 



THE PASTORAL OFFICE. 



schemes of wealth and aggrandizement. The 
pulpit, then, must speak with a trumpet-voice that 
shall thrill through these animal passions and 
appetites, and arouse men to a sense of that 
which is truly estimable and lasting. And not 
only must the pulpit do this, but it must speak 
for all the duties of life — it must exhibit religion 
in its bearings upon every action and every 
thought. It must follow men wherever they go 
to mingle with the world, and perform that which 
may devolve upon them. It should preside in the 
marts of trade and commerce, and enter into the 
daily transactions of business. It should attend 
to the interests of education, and the diffusion of 
intelligence and mental culture ; of course, not 
making these the sole objects of discourse, but 
giving influence to them, and showing their 
moral and religious bearings. Well has a 
recent writer said — " The pulpit must become 

more adaptive Christianity is not a' set of 

hard and dry propositions, but a vital and 
diffusive spirit, which can mingle with the whole 
moral life, and sanctify it in every action. In 
these days, preaching must diversify its topics, 
and widen the field of its ministry. Instead of 
dogmas, it must take principles ; principles it 
must apply to practice; and practice implies the 
whole character and conduct of man in all his 
relations, personal, domestic, and public. Ab- 
stractions and theories in religion do not touch 
the heart or reform the life." "Preaching," 
says he, " without losing elevation or spirituality, 
should assume more distinctness ; meet the 
mechanic at his bench, the trader at his desk, 



202 



DISCOURSES-. 



and all according to their several positions and 
obligations." " If it be said, that Christ's re- 
ligion has accomplished little compared with 
what might have been expected, the defect has 
been, not in the spirit, but the forms with 
which it has been encumbered. The result of 
all is, that in this eternal attention to dogmatical 
distinctions, the intellect and heart of the minister 
are dwarfed, and the disciples are in the measure 
of their masters. While a few popular doctrines 
are continually reiterated, or points of dispute are 
urged with a zeal that is often another name for 
bigotry, all that is serious in man's moral nature 
is left untouched; a spurious excitement is 
mistaken for conversion, bodily impulses for 
sacred inspirations, and fierce denunciations of a 
different belief for holy ardor in the cause of 
Christ. . . . That a vast deal of popular preaching is 
dogmatical or polemical, will not be denied by any 
person who is in the habit of hearing or reading 
our modern sermons ; and often under the guise 
of religious phraseology there is concealed a 
covert uncharitableness, which the advocate for 
Christ should blush to utter, which the disciples 
of Christ should weep to hear." 

Concurring as I do, my friends, in the remarks 
just quoted, I proceed to remark, that the pulpit 
has ever been a powerful medium for the 
dissemination of moral and religious truth. 
Mingled as its ministrations have been with 
error — unworthily perverted as have been its 
opportunities and privileges ; still, it has done 
much, much for the cause of God — much, much 
for the spiritual welfare of man. And now 9 



THE PASTORAL OFFICE. 



203 



when every other element of human progress 
seems awake and active, shall the pulpit become 
weakened in its influences and superseded by 
some other agent ? The press is busy — the 
secular tongue is busy ; — shall the pulpit be idle ? 
— shall it be narrow and abstracted in its teach- 
ings ? — shall it not speak out to the spirit of the 
age ? — shall it not speak for all the duties and all 
the true interests of man ? We have not 
only error to meet Jin the christian camp, we 
have the infidel to contend with without. His 
weapons are, or rather he professes that they are, 
reason, science, learning. Shall we not meet 
reason with reason, and science with science, and 
learning with learning ? And here let me say, 
that we should beware of falling into the error of 
looking upon every recent philosophical discovery 
— every new lesson learned from the book of 
nature — as an embodied influence, a newly- 
forged weapon for the overthrow of the gospel. 
It is to be hoped that the christian world generally 
is beginning to see that the Word of God wars 
not with his works — that every new revelation 
of nature but strengthens the chain which links 
earth and sky — adds to the battlements of that 
religion whose foundation is the eternal Rock, and 
whose pinnacle is bright with upper glories. I 
say, then, that we should have a well-taught and 
gifted pulpit ; but in saying so, I do not mean 
(far from it !) that it is to utter only liquid 
declamation, and learned bombast, and refined 
speculations, and smooth prettiness, and choice 
polished sentences, as bright and as cold as 
icicles — neither that it should become entangled 



204 



DISCOURSES. 



with this world's wisdom, or wander into mystic 
subtleties, or have its spirituality and its beauty 
wither under insidious and fatal philosophies. 
But I do mean, that we should have an enlight- 
ened and an intelligent pulpit — a pulpit that shall 
be able to be, in the* proper sense of the phrase, 
" all things to all men" — that shall be able to meet 
intellect with its own weapons, and to convince 
it in all the pride of its wisdom ; and yet shall 
teach the little child — that shall show the haughty 
philosopher the unsearchable riches of Christ, 
and yet be understood and blessed by the poor 
and simple-minded. I do mean that we should 
have a pulpit that shall advance beyond the 
skeletons of creeds and the dry ground of 
doctrinal propositions, and probe the heart, and 
open to the thirsty lip and the fainting spirit th& 
gushing waters of eternal life, and heal the 
spiritual woes, and satisfy the spiritual wants of 
man. I believe that all this will well consist, 
and consist the best and the most effectually, 
with an enlightened, well-taught clergy. 

And let me say further, that the pulpit should 
labor for the improvement and salvation of the 
world. It should wall itself around with and 
base itself upon the Bible as a munition of rock* 
It should exhibit Christ to the world. Not the 
Christianity of the church— not the Christianity 
of the creed ; — but Christ as he lived, Christ as he 
taught, Christ as he appeared in all his moral 
power and loveliness ; apart from the systems and 
the tenets of men; — Christ as he spoke at Olivet 
— Christ as he prayed in Gethsemane — Christ as 
he wept at the grave of Lazarus — Christ as he 



THE PASTORAL OFFICE . 



205 



died upon the cross — Christ as he arose from the 
sepulchre. Here is enough to move the heart, 
to start the penitential tear, to call forth from the 
welling fountains of the spirit, gushings f love 
and tenderness. Oh ! there is a boundless 
theme opened for the preacher in the character 
of Jesus. Here are topics for his discourses, 
examples for his imitation, and the noblest 
motives that can be brought to bear upon the 
universal mind. 

Such are the pastor's duties in the pulpit. He 
takes his station there, as upon a watch-tower, to 
proclaim the circumstances and progress of the 
night, and to prepare men for a glorious morning. 
On his right hand and on his left stands this 
injunction in letters of living light — " Preach the 
word; be instant in season, out of season; reprove, 
rebuke, exhort, with all long-suffering and 
doctrine." 

III. We come to consider the pastoral office 
in its relation to parochial duties. And under 
this head I will specify but two conditions for 
the right discharge of these duties. 

And the first is, a sympathy in the minister 's 
heart with his people. If it were only to deepen 
his philosophy, the pastor is placed in one of the 
most prominent positions in life. He beholds 
humanity in all its phases— he sees, as it were, 
every soul with its mask off. He is called upon 
to enter the low hut of the poor, the saloons of. 
the rich — to stand by the bed of the dying saint, 
and to hear the last gasp of the hardened prodigal 
— to meet affliction in its weeds kissing the cold 
IS 



206 



DISCOURSES. 



lips of the dead, to behold Rachel weeping for 
her children. He is called upon to check the 
meanings of despair, to guide inquiring doubt, 
and to turn the tearful eye of penitence to the 
light of promise — in short, to rejoice with the 
joyful and mourn with the sad : and, I repeat, if 
it went no further than to improve his philosophy, 
it would be a great education— a pastor's paro- 
chial career ; an education out of the volume 
of human life, blurred, and tear-dimmed, and 
torn. But it is for more than this that he 
is thus placed. It is to call out his love for 
his fellow-men — to mingle his heart with 
theirs — to draw forth all his devotion to God and 
his cause. The pastor must sympathize with his 
people. Shall they be cold, formal words, that 
gush from his lips and fall upon the mourner's 
heart ? Oh ! no ; he must feel for that mourner, 
he must mourn too ; or his consolation will drop 
like cold rain upon the drooping hopes that he 
would bind up and restore. Shall it be with a 
secret contempt, an inward loathing, that he 
enters the home of the poor ? No ! — he must 
feel that here too are his brethren, he must let 
the kind words flow from a sincere soul — a soul 
that looks beneath the outward garb, down into 
the immortal spirit, and that recognises in these 
toiling and afflicted ones such as those for whom 
his Master loved to labor, and with whom, as in 
other days, he often takes up his abode. 

Again ; — in the joyful circle, the minister 
should not be there like a gloomy statue of ice, 
cold, distant, unlovely — quenching the light of 
the eye that turns upon him, and sending the tide 



THE PASTORAL OFFICE. 



207 



of social gladness freezing" back to the heart. 
Goodness, piety, may live with a social spirit and a 
pleasant smile — yea, often it does live with them 
when austerity and gloom are the cloak and the 
cowl of monkish hypocrisy. If the pastor is to 
live religion, he should let it be seen that it is a 
principle that goes out into all life, and tempers 
every action — that it is most attractive when 
enshrined in an habitually cheerful heart — as 
flowers and herbage, wet with penitential dews, 
are the most beautiful when the sunlight mantles 
them. Says that quaint and pithy writer, old 
Fuller, speaking of the faithful minister — 
" Especially he detesteth affected gravity, which 
is rather on men than in them, whereby some 
belie their register-book, antedate their age to 
seem far older than they are, and plait and set 
their brows in an affected sadness." Without 
sacrificing any of that dignity which he should 
maintain — above all, without trifling with religion 
or religious things — the pastor maybe habitually 
cheerful, and be glad whenever occasion calls. 

Thus, in sorrow and in joy — in all the varied 
experience of life — the pastor must sympathize 
with his people. He must imitate his Master in 
his sympathy. He must visit them as a brother 
— he must attend them in all their seasons 
of good and evil, faithfully, zealously, lov- 
ingly. 

As the other condition which we would specify 
as necessary to a right discharge of a pastor's 
parochial duties, we would mention, that he must 
labor in all proper ivays for the good of his 
flock. Is there a physical, social, intellectual, or 



208 



DISCOURSES. 



moral evil in any of the families over which he 
is placed ? He must strive and use his influence 
to have that evil removed. Is there poverty ? 
He should see that that poverty is relieved. Is 
there intemperance ? He should labor, in the 
sober moments of the inebriate, kindly and 
persuasively with him. Is there strife? He 
should pour the oil of gospel love in upon those 
troubled bosoms, that they may be at peace. 
Are there despondency, doubt, or repining at the 
lot of the board and the hearth ? He should 
labor to check that spirit — he should endeavor to 
remove that distrust, by pointing out right views 
of God's character and his dispensations. Is 
there profanity, or vice, or a lack of religious 
veneration ? He should speak firmly for his 
Master, rebuke, and exhort. Is there a want of 
spiritual life and progress among the members of 
his communion ? He should preach the word 
plainly and fervently, not merely in the desk, but 
at every fitting season. Thus, and in every way 
for the good of his flock, for the glory of God, the 
pastor should strive and toil. 

I am aware, my friends, that the parochial 
obligations of the minister open to him a wide 
field of action. But I have laid down two 
general principles for this department, that, re- 
flected and acted upon, will produce all necessary 
results. Sympathy with his people will lead the 
pastor to their homes and their firesides — their 
sick-beds and their chambers of death and 
mourning — their social circles, their baptismal 
fonts, their marriage altars — to all the scenes of 
their joy and their sorrow ; and a determination 



THE PASTORAL OFFICE. 



209 



to labor for their good will excite him to enhV 
in all good schemes for human melioration, in 
all advisable plans for intellectual and moral 
advancement. It will place him in the Sabbath- 
school and the benevolent society, in the cause of 
education, temperance, literature, morals. Fore- 
most in these will he be — earnest and zealous — 
warring with mighty weapons against sin, yet 
merciful to the sinner— striking at vice with a 
battle-axe, yet wiping away with a gentle hand, 
the penitential tear ; — loving to young and old, 
to rich and poor— loving, and kind, and true to 
all whom Providence has placed in his charge. 

I have now spoken nearly all that I intend 
saying at this time on the Pastoral Office. I 
have dwelt more upon principles than upon 
details. Principles are eternal. They abide and 
give character through every change, and under 
all circumstances. Special acts are left for 
contingencies. Let the pastor possess a loving, 
spirit, and he will feel that his field is the noblest 
of earth. Let him act for his high calling — let 
him act from the pulpit and in the parish — let 
him act from principle ; and, with God's guidance 
and blessings he shall, in all the minute details of 
his ministry, do well — he will " preach the word ; 
be instant in season, out of season ; reprove, 
rebuke, exhort, with all long-suffering and doc- 
trine." 

Brethren of this Society : — 

This is a joyful and important occasion. The 
installation of a pastor over you is an event full 
of meaning for you — an event in which are the 
18* 



210 



DISCOURSES, 



seeds of much gladness or sorrow. As you shall 
bear yourselves— as he shall discharge his duties 
—so will the fruits of this connection be. But 
special charges to you and to him are in other 
hands. I leave them there. Yet suffer me, ere 
I close, to linger around this interesting subject* 
There is, in the true model of a parish, a social 
feeling and a unity that make it the centre of 
many dear ties and associations. There is 
nothing that so much draws men together as a 
harmony of opinion— a sympathy of belief— and 
in a religious society this is an influence that is 
likely long to exist. Accustomed to meet one 
another in the same house of worship, Sabbath 
after Sabbath, year after year, families become 
familiar with and attached to each other, and out 
of many, as it were, one great family is formed. 
A stranger enters this community, and all feel 
interested— ah old, familiar face is taken away by 
death, and all miss it. The joys or the sorrows 
of one member thrill upon a chord that vibrates 
through the whole. And this is as it should be. 
I know of no tie that is so w^ell calculated to make 
men feel their kindred— I know of no influence 
that is so efficient in developing the great principle 
of universal brotherhood — as religion— the reli* 
gion of Jesus Christ. It reaches into such vital 
elements of our existence— its sofi hand rests so 
closely upon our hopes and fears, our joys and 
sorrows— that the common principles of our 
humanity are revealed to us all ; we cling the 
closer to one another, and the chain that binds us 
is electric. What more beautiful and holy in its 
associations and memories, than some old* 



THE PASTORAL OFFICE. 



211 



beloved parish ? There stands the quiet church 
that for years has heard the sacred lesson, the 
gushing anthem, and the fervent prayer. There, 
when the bright Sabbath comes, and falls like an 
atmosphere from heaven on the green hills 
and the valleys, go up the groups to worship, 
The aged are there, who remember when the 
walls of that house were reared and its beams 
laid with rejoicings. The young are there, 
who have already learned to love its sacred 
courts. The dead sleep by it, under the tall 
trees, peacefully in their graves— the dead, who 
have laid their ashes beside the spot where the 
teachings that they once loved may murmur above 
them yet. There, by that altar, little babes have 
had their baptism. There, in those seats, their 
young eyes have rested on the words of Jesus. 
There too, perhaps, as they have grown up to 
reason and reflect, they have stood and made 
their holy vows of christian faith. And there, 
in yonder porch, perchance, the last light of earth 
has fallen on their sleeping brows, as the funeral 
dirge wailed over them. 

All these influences have knit this group of 
worshippers together, and made their lot in life, 
in some sense, one. They have gone out into 
the labors of existence, to know and to love each 
other better-— they have learned to sympathize 
with and to aid each other; and when, from their 
several places of toil— from the light or the 
shadow of their various conditions— they come 
together ; when the utensils of the Week are laid 
aside on life's dusty highway, and they meet to 
talk of hope, and heaven, and Christ, and God 3 



212 



DISCOURSES. 



those mighty themes go down into hearts that 
beat for each other's weal, and mourn for each 
other's wo— that rejoice to trust that those 
pleasant meetings on earth are preludes to an 
endless one in heaven, where the old who have 
gone before, and the young who shall follow, 
will assemble, never more to be separated. 

Conceive, then, what a momentous event to 
such a parish must be the installation of a pastor 
over them. Consider the intimate relations that 
will naturally grow up between these worshippers 
and him. What a complexion of good or evil may 
he give to that great family ! How may he be 
the means of elevating or depressing their lives 
— how may he purify or pollute — how may he 
knit together or disjoin ! How may he conduct 
them on in the path to heaven— or leave or lead 
them in the dark way of sin ! What interests 
then, may he affect, what great deeds of good or 
ill may he achieve ! And if the result of his 
ministry shall be ill, how much of the responsi- 
bility in that case may rest upon his people ! 
If good, how much may be the effect of their 
harmonious and Loving co-operation with their 
pastor ! 

My brethren,— this is the nature of the event 
in which we participate this day, although these 
may not be, in every minute detail, your circum- 
stances and condition. May your union be a 
happy one and blessed of God ! May He sanctify 
it to your spiritual and everlasting welfare — to 
that of many— to his own glory ! 

And your pastor — may he be taught and blest 
of God ! His— nay, ours, my ministering breth- 



THE PASTORAL OFFICE. 213 

ren — is a high, a holy, an immensely responsible 
office. When we remember that we occupy the 
pulpit — the same field that Luther, and Knox, and 
Hooker, and Barrow, and Ferrelon, and hosts of 
others, have occupied — yea, Paul the mighty, and 
Stephen the martyr — a field of infinite vastness — 
of almost overwhelming duties ; it is a thrilling 
and a startling thought. How shall we discharge 
these duties ? My brethren, with God's heip 
and guidance. May we have these ! May we 
labor faithfully in this field that " is whitening to 
the harvest ! " May we gather many and im- 
mortal sheaves into His garner, and receive at 
last a crown whose lustre never fadeth ! May this 
precept ever be treasured in our memories, and 
influence our hearts and actions — " Preach the 
word; be instant in season, out of season ; reprove, 
rebuke, exhort, with all long-sufTering and doc- 
trine ! " 



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